Tainted
by SuperSonic21
Summary: AU where Sam managed to kill Jake at Cold Oak. Azazel knows that getting Sam to open the devil's gate will be a hard sell, so he develops a new plan that will make the younger Winchester sure to help him. However, his plans could change Sam forever - can he hang on to his humanity? A demonblood!Sam story. Warnings for violence/torture.
1. I

**_AN:_** _yet another idea that won't leave me alone. This will be multi-chapter if it gets some interest :)_

* * *

With mud staining his uniform and blood staining his head, Jake lay face-down in the dirt as rain pounded down upon him. The rain, though oppressive, was nothing compared with the looming visage of Sam Winchester.

The last one left. The Boy King.

He stood, taking heaving breaths, above the fallen soldier; his last opponent. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream and fall to the floor and tear his hair out and-

They didn't kill humans.  
_It was self-defence-_  
They didn't. Kill. Humans.

Thunder sounded nearby as he stared at the wound he'd inflicted on Jake's head with a rock that had been in reach as he'd been cowering on the ground. He thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, about the close call between Jake's knife and his back. So close, yet so far. If he'd died, he wouldn't be feeling this cloying, suffocating guilt; this heavy burden, weighing down on his shoulders and making his stumble slightly as if it were corporeal.

If he'd died, though, Dean would have-

_Dean. _It didn't matter what Dean _might _have done, just that when he saw the blood on Sam's hands, saw the bloody rock and the body at his feet, he would want nothing to do with Sam … No, scratch that: he'd want to kill him.

He was supernatural. He'd killed a human. So, Dean would want to kill him. Easy as two plus two.

_Speak of the devil_. Sam heard the growl of the Impala's engine close by – he couldn't have said when it had begun, but he'd only just noticed it. Then he noticed its driver, hurtling towards him at full pelt, his eyes wide and full of alarm and fear. Sam would have liked to think that the fear was _for _him, and not _of_him.

Sam's face contorted in fear and devastation as he tried to think of a way to beg Dean not to kill him that would actually work. Did he want it to work?

This place … All the death, and the fighting, had done a number on him. A rational voice in his head told him that he was being paranoid, and should just hear Dean out, but he couldn't hear the tiny voice over the cacophony of other, louder voices in his head that were screaming at him to run before Dean shot him in the head.

Suddenly, the choice was taken from his hands. He felt an invisible force clench around him – around his arms, his legs, his chest, _his brain _– tight and forceful, until his eyes rolled back and he fell, boneless, to the floor.

But he didn't hit the floor. The last sensation he felt was weightlessness before he was swallowed into blackness, to the soundtrack of thunder right above his head.

* * *

Dust. Dust, everywhere. His tongue chafes against the inside of his mouth; throat seemingly stuck to itself as he tries to breathe. The panic of not being able to get enough oxygen causes him to open his eyes, which only causes more pain and panic, as all he sees is blinding light.

He threw his arm up, to cover his eyes with the crook of his elbow; squeezed his eyes shut, lest some errant rays of light make their way into them against his will. His hand brushed against his face on the way up, and he noticed that he'd grown some stubble. He rolled over, moving from being sprawled spread-eagled on the hard, rough surface to curling up in the foetal position on his side.

He realises suddenly that he is too hot. _Way_ too hot. He didn't have his jacket anymore, but even in a t-shirt and jeans, he felt as if he were boiling alive.

This brings him to a realisation, once he finally remembers the feel of a rock in his hand, and the sound of a skull cracking, and the sensation of slippery blood on his fingers-

_I'm in Hell. I am in Hell._

This is it. An eternity of hard, rough ground and blinding light and burning skin -

"… An ambulance or something …"

What?

He groans slightly, and it comes out as a heavy sigh.

"… Definitely breathing, though. It's not far– we can't just leave him here, he'll die of, of – sunstroke, or something,"  
"What if this is a scam? I saw on one of those programmes, they leave bait for tourists, and then when you're least expecting it, they pounce and they take your wallet and car keys, and they-"  
"Do you see anyone else out here? We're in the middle of nowhere!"  
"Yeah, but what if-"

Sam holds up his head slightly; he finds that he isn't as weak as he'd previously thought. He shades his eyes with a hot hand, and looks up.

Because that does _not _sound like the eternal taunting of demons to him. That sounds like yuppies.

"Oh, hey – hey, are you … Are you okay?" There's a woman, brunette and doe-eyed, and a man, equally as naïve and clueless. A couple, his brain supplies helpfully, and he almost rolls his eyes at how slow he's being.

In response, he frowns. Why do they care? He's a murderer. He's got demon blood in him. He's evil. His brother wants to kill him, and they should leave him to die.

"N – no," He says, but it comes out as a whisper; half way through the syllable, he involuntarily swallows, in an attempt to provide his throat with much-needed moisture. As a result, he coughs, curling up slightly again.  
"Here – take as much as you want. We'll restock when we get to there. It's not far," The man reassures, offering Sam an unopened bottle of water. His fears about this being a scam have seemingly been put on the back burner. He sees that they are both happy, and smiling, and that they seem genuinely concerned for his wellbeing.

"How did you end up out here, all alone?" The woman asks, casting her gaze around as Sam swigs gratefully from the water bottle. It's the most satisfying sensation, although slightly overwhelming at first. He notes that, yes, they are yuppies, in their late twenties, perhaps. He isn't complaining, though – at least they're friendly.

He notices, too, that they wear crucifixes. He wonders if they were encouraged to stop in the middle of nowhere by the parable of the Good Samaritan. He almost laughs at the thought.

"I – don't know … Where _is _here?" He asks, sitting up properly.  
The yuppies glance at one another with frowns that obviously state that they're judging him to be some sort of drug-addled freak. It's fine by him – that's better than the demonic reality. Would they even touch him if they knew how deep Hell had sunk its claws into him, and for how long? They were God-fearing people, after all.

He didn't mind their sideways glances: he was too busy squinting into the distance, and realising that he was in the desert. Granted, the couple sounded American, but he couldn't be too sure. He'd passed out in Cold Oak, and now he was in the desert, slowly roasting while parched and starved. Who was to say that he was even on the same continent anymore? Who was to say how long he'd been out of it?

"Nevada. The desert," The man replies slowly, as if Sam is four. He just nods, though. "You involved with drugs? Or, uh, drink?" Sam shakes his head, keeping tight-lipped. "You got your money on you still?"

Sam pats his pockets … No, he must have dropped his wallet back at Cold Oak. He shook his head. The couple simultaneously sent him sympathetic looks.  
"Ah. I see," The woman says in a way that tells him for sure that she thinks he's been the victim of organised crime – possibly kidnapped, or carjacked, and left on the side of the road. "Well, we'll be happy to give you a lift to the city, if you want," She offered, and the man nodded enthusiastically; all his scepticism gone now that he considered Sam a victim rather than a potential perpetrator of crimes against tourists.

"Uh … Which city?" Sam asked, as the man helps pull him up. He gives him a tight-lipped smile, and finishes the bottle of water. He can't wait to get in their car: honestly, the prospect of AC and shade is more important than the potential for them to do him harm (which, he judges, is low anyway).

"Las Vegas!" He replies excitedly, "What's your name, anyway?" Sam thinks idly that if they're not careful, they'll get eaten alive in Vegas.  
"Sam – my name is Sam," He replies, as the woman opens the backseat door for him to climb in. He does so, and it feels good to result his limbs on something softer than hot, rocky desert ground.  
"God's looking out for you, Sam," She replies with a smile, as they both head to the front seat.

He stares at the back of their heads, feeling his eyes boggle at them with incredulity.

_Yeah, right. He's looking out for me. Watching, waiting for me to kill again, probably._

He just nods vaguely.

* * *

Let me know whether or not I should continue this! I have a little more written, and it gets a bit darker. Thanks!

**p.s. Now would be a really great time to thank everyone who has left a review on any of my oneshots/finished stories - I really appreciate them, even if I have no more chapters to add! Bless you all, and thank you. **


	2. II

_**AN: **__thanks for all the positive reviews you've been leaving! Glad to see you're interested. Here's another chapter for you. Let me know what you think, or any theories about what you think's happened. A little more has been written, also, so an update will be posted in the near future. _

* * *

The journey takes forty-five minutes. It's half an hour until he sees the city on the horizon, and he wants to stick his head out of the window and feel the fresh air on his face. Though the AC in the car is heavenly, he longs to feel the wind in his hair. It reminds him of Dean; how they used to roll down the windows in the Impala, and drive like crazy people on deserted highways. He wanted to feel that one last time.

He didn't doubt Dean would find him soon, and kill him. He wanted to deny it, but he felt it was inevitable. At least it would be Dean, and not someone like that creep Gordon. At least he could go quietly, and on his own terms, if Dean let him.

Half-way through the story of how Alex and Laurie – who turned out to be newlyweds from Illinois – were on their holiday in Vegas because they wanted exciting memories, and because they wouldn't be able to go if they had a baby within the year like they wanted to, Sam's vision went completely blank.

Then, he was assaulted with images, tinted with yellow. They were violent and relentless in their intensity, but strangely, they didn't hurt. They felt . . . _Right_.

He saw himself, entering a hotel room – room 1222. The room was lavishly decorated, though a little on the tacky side, what with all the gold trimmings. Aside from the decorations, it was pretty standard – tea and coffee making stuff, stationary, and an en suite bathroom which looked to be equally extravagant in furnishings. In the room stood a man, facing the window: they were high up; there was a fountain down below, in addition to pillars, and the ever-present lights of the city.  
"Excuse me?" Sam asked him in the vision.  
The man turned around. His eyes were yellow, and he was smirking. He held his arms open, and said,  
"My boy! I'm glad you found the place alright,"  
From what he said, it sounded as if he'd lost Sam, was welcoming him home.  
"You were always my favourite, Sammy. I'm so glad you were able to kill that sap Jake – very cold-hearted! Knew you had it in you, kid,"

Sam snapped back to the present, suddenly seeing the face of Laurie looking at him with concern. She was still twisted in her seat, facing him, but her excitement had been replaced with a look of worry. She was snapping her fingers in front of his face; he flinched, turning away.  
"Sam? Can you hear me?" She asked. Sam surmised that she would be a good mother; she had the mother-hen act down.  
"Uh – sorry, zoned out – just tired," And hungry. And confused. And thirsty, _again_.  
She just smiled and nodded. He was so glad they hadn't asked too many questions: that would have been too much for him to handle right now.  
"I coulda sworn . . . Your eyes, they sort of-"  
"What?" He asked, mentally taking back the thankfulness about the lack of questions.  
"They went – yellow?"

He turned towards the window. The sun was setting now – it was already the late afternoon when he'd woken up, and now the bright lights of the city were coming to life one by one. He considered his answer carefully. He was about to shrug and make up some bullshit excuse, when she laughed and comically smacked her hand to her face.  
"The sunset! God, I'm so stupid. The sun's doing all kinds of crazy things to your face . . . Isn't it pretty?" She said, looking out of the window with a dreamy expression.  
"Sure is," Remarked Alex, smiling at her. They shared a romantic moment. Sam felt awkward.

But he didn't care about the awkwardness; he relaxed immediately. She'd provided him with a get-out clause, all of her own accord.  
But why the Hell had his eyes gone yellow?

Once they were in the city, they stopped talking about their lives and started pointing out the landmarks. Sam nodded along with them, and smiled wanly. He was thinking about Vegas week: the week he and Dean would traditionally take off to go drinking and gambling with each other, rather than hunt.

He missed his brother a lot.

"So, um – do you want us to drop you off at a hotel, or something?" Laurie inquires.  
"Yeah . . ." Sam says with a frown, looking out at the streets.

Sam tried to remember what he'd seen out of the window of the room in his vision; anything that might identify it. There were pillars, and a fountain, and it was high up, and the stationary said –  
_The stationary_. Caesar's Palace . . . Classy.

"Caesar's Palace – if that's okay," He added hopefully.  
"Sure! That's where we were going, anyway!" Alex replies cheerfully. "You have a room there?"  
"I'm meeting someone, I think," Sam explains. The room number was something like 1222; there was a tiny sprinkling of yellow sulphur around the threshold, which should point him in the right direction.

When they arrived, Sam helps them with their suitcases, and the valet took their car. They moved to check in, but Sam stopped them first.  
"Hey, thanks so much for your help – I don't know what I would've . . ." He trailed off, their expectant faces making him wonder how he could say what he needed to next without sounding like a creep and/or serial killer. "Listen – keep safe, please. There's a lot of bad people here. Look out, okay?"  
"Sure thing. We won't get fooled by the scammers," Alex replies with a knowing smile.  
"Yeah, uh, sure – the scammers. And stuff," Sam says vaguely, biting his lip. After a few seconds, he waves them off to go and check in, and cast his gaze about for the elevators. He spots them – _of course they're gold _– and rushes over, immediately self-conscious about how under-dressed he is for this hotel. His jeans are covered in desert dust, as is his scruffy red undershirt, and his hair is probably a mess, too.

He gets in the first one that arrives: there is one lone occupant, with blonde hair. She smiles at him calculatingly, which is a little creepy. She looks predatory, and he really isn't in the mood to be flirting. Stepping in, he wonders suddenly which floor to choose . . . He'll have to ask her, embarrassingly. The doors close.

He takes a breath to ask her which floor, but she speaks before him.  
"What's the room number?"  
"1222 – that's what they said at the check in desk, but I forgot the directions," He lied, a rogue hand brushing the back of his neck. It's an obvious tell, but he's sure she doesn't really care about his back-story anyway.  
"Sure," She presses the button for him, and the lift starts its achingly slow progress upwards.

He slips his hands down into his pockets awkwardly. The atmosphere, as he sees it, is uncomfortable, because she's staring. She seems to find nothing wrong. He decides to ask a question to ease the tension.  
"Do you have the date?" He asks. She smirks.  
"August 1st,"  
"What?!"

Three months. It's been three months.

Then, an equally emotionally startling realisation hits him: not only is he in Vegas, but _it's Vegas week_. The first week of August is always Vegas week. Here he is, without Dean. He runs his hands through his hair to calm himself, but the sensation of three months of growth only makes him want to panic more.

His hands scrub down his face, and feel the stubble. It's not three months of growth, strangely, but it's definitely more than if a day has passed, like he thought. He grips the handrail so tight his knuckles go white.

"You okay there?" The girl asks, though there's a slight patronising edge to her voice. "You seem a little sick, buddy,"  
"No, no – I'm fine. Thanks," He replies shortly, though he wants to get out as fast as he can. He imagines Dean, on Vegas week, planning on how to hunt him down and kill him, hate in his eyes and exorcisms in his journal. The thought makes him sicker than the swaying of the elevator does.  
"I'm Ruby, by the way," She adds, smirking _again_. What's with this girl? He gives her a tight, quick smile.  
"Sam," He replies. The elevator at that point thankfully pings, and he is allowed to leave. Her gaze follows him out, and she doesn't even blink. It's creepy.

He follows the corridor along – _even numbers are on the right _– past 1022, 1204, 1206 . . . The corridor is giving him tunnel vision, stretching on and on in a curve. The motion of moving slowly and surely grounds him, but he still feels a coil of nausea at the revelations jus thrust upon him.

Even if Dean didn't want to kill him – _which he did, so why was Sam even considering this hypothetical situation?_ – he'd have trouble explaining the missing three months to him. He didn't even know himself what happened.

1208, 1210, 1212 . . . Perhaps the reason he could remember is because he didn't want to. Perhaps he'd done something awful – what if he was repressing the memory?

1214, 1216, 1218 – what if killing Jake was like opening the floodgates to the darkness inside of him? What if it was the catalyst to him going dark-side?

1220 – 1222. He stopped, leaning on the wall outside the room with his right hand, steadying himself. He shut his eyes, and rested his temple against the cool wallpaper.

_You cannot afford to freak out now. The yellow-eyed demon is in there, and he will rip you to shreds if you can't keep it together. Your only chance of finding out what happened to you, why you're here, is talking to him. _

_He caused this. _

_He did this to you. _

_This isn't your fault_.

The reassuring voice in his head sounds an awful lot like Dean. It just serves to make him more sad, knowing that Dean won't ever give him a pep talk other than 'you should have convinced me to kill you like Dad wanted so we could prevent this mess', ever again. He stared down at the sulphur trace on the floor, slightly yellowing the tips of his boots.

He takes a deep breath, pulls himself together, and pats himself down . . . _Of course _he doesn't have any weapons. Perfect.

The door is open when he tries the handle. He takes a breath, and steps in.


	3. III

_**AN: **__questions! Answers! Demons! Dean! This chapter has it all. Thanks for all the favourites/alerts, and for all your reviews. They make me smile and stuff. _

_Let me know what you think of this chapter! Warnings for language. _

* * *

It's just like his vision. But the smell of sulphur is so much worse. The younger Winchester clears his throat, trying not to gag. He finds the scent somewhat overly familiar, and that creeps him out.

"Excuse me?" Sam asks the man, who he knows is being possessed by the one who got him in this mess all those years ago, when he was only a baby. The yellow-eyed demon.

He turned around. His eyes were yellow, as expected, and he was smirking (also as expected). He held his arms open, welcoming Sam with a malevolent smile.  
"My boy! I'm glad you found the place alright," He enthuses, taking a step towards Sam, who backs away, shaking his head. It ignores his protest, and continues: "You were always my favourite, Sammy. I'm so glad you were able to kill that sap Jake – very cold-hearted! Knew you had it in you, kid," He congratulates.

Sam feels his whole body tremble as he continues moving backwards. Contrary to what he thought, the sight of the demon that had destroyed his life wasn't less horrifying just because he was expecting it. It had killed his mother; it had probably been responsible for the death of his father, too. It had come into his nursery when he was only six months old, fed him its blood, and tainted him forever; it had come in the night and stolen his one chance at a normal, happy, uncomplicated life.

It was staring at him like he was twistedly proud of him; like he was a monster he had created.

Sam bumps into something: a glance over his shoulder shows him that it's that Ruby girl. But her eyes are black . . . _Fuck_.

"No, I didn't-" He stutters. _Come on! Be braver than that, kiddo, _the Dean of his imagination encourages.  
"Yes you did, Sammy-boy," He demon chides.  
"No! No, it was self-defence. I wanted to help him," He insists more boldly, "I wanted both of us to get out of there together, to work together to, to-" He flounders for words as he tries to remember what had been going through his mind that night. It _was _three months ago, he supposed. It all seemed kind of fuzzy now . . . Plus, he was a little distracted at that moment.

"Funny way of helping someone," Ruby comments. He turns to her briefly, his mouth twisted down at the corners in annoyance. She hadn't been flirting with him in the elevator: she'd been his chaperone; delivering him like a lamb to the slaughter to her boss.  
"It wasn't like that, is what I'm saying," He grits out, his gaze flicking back to the yellow-eyed demon.  
"Of course not," He purrs, approaching Sam, who stands rigidly still, feeling unable to move. Ruby wonders off to the mini bar, and pours herself a glass of something expensive and strong from a miniature bottle.

The demon gets right up close, before it speaks again, stinking of blood and bile and sulphur:  
"I thought I'd lost you, Sammy. You just disappeared. I was devastated," It cooed. Sam made a face at it in confusion and disgust. He tried not to let any weakness into his voice as he replied:  
"Yeah, right. Like you didn't make this happen," Sam indicated the whole room with his eyes. "You put me here, stole time from me. Why?" He asked. His chest felt tight with how lost he was. He'd have given anything to have Dean here to back him up, and tell him what to say. Right now, he just couldn't concentrate, in the wake of his life becoming so damn confusing and _wrong_.  
"Now now, why would I do that? – This is all your doing, boy. You transported your way here, after my little . . . _Interim period_," He finished with a sly expression.  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam demands, summoning bravado that he knows is probably completely unwarranted in his current situation.

"Tell me," The demon turned away as it began to monologue at him. He stood his ground, keeping a stony face though inside, he was stupidly grateful that it wasn't so close to him anymore. "You feel stronger, don't you? Feel capable of anything? I mean, waking up in the desert was no picnic, so it probably sapped your strength slightly, but you only have yourself to blame for that one. Peculiar place to choose," He comments in an offhand way that he knows will rile his would-be protégé.  
"What're you saying? That, I - I . . . _Teleported_ to the desert?" Sam deciphered.  
"You always were a smart one," It replied, and though they were yellow all over, Sam sensed its eyes rolling. "_Yes_, you did. Once we were done with you, we let you go. You chose, somewhere in your mind, to come here. Isn't that strange? That you'd chose to come to the most sinful city in this god-forsaken country?"

Sam was still reeling. Let him go? . . . From what? And how had he jumped to here? _Why_ here?

After a pause in which Sam's gaze dropped to the floor, flicking about as he desperately tried to answer any and all of the above questions, the demon interrupted him: "I'll tell you why you came here. It's because you're evil, Sammy. You're one of us," He crooned.  
"No, I'm not," Sam replied assuredly, completely certain about something in the conversation for once. "I've got a few drops of blood, which _you _forced into me. I am _not_ a demon," He finished, pulling himself to his full height, though he was aware that, still covered in desert dust and with flyaway hair, he didn't look that intimidating.  
"It's true – a few drops of demon blood, does not a demon make. However, a full transfusion and some extremely rare and painstaking rituals performed extremely carefully over a period of three months . . ." He trails off, a mischievous glint in his eye as he catches Sam's gaze.

There's a moment of silence. The youngest Winchester feels himself begin to sweat.

"What – what did you do to me?" He asked, his mouth suddenly as dry as it had been when he'd woken up in the desert.

The yellow-eyed demon just turned to face him fully in a slow, drawn-out way, and smiled wickedly. Sam blanched, and his eyes widened. He grappled for the nearest support, which turned out to be a bedside table. He almost knocked the tacky gold lamp off of it; it rattled threateningly, its light way too bright for Sam to cope with at that moment as it blared directly into his eyes.

It's all, just – a lot. Too much, in fact. And there's no one there to help him. Just people to taunt him for who – for _what_ he was.

"I'm – no, I can't be, I'm not-" He splutters, one hand slapping to his forehead as the other tugged at his hair, his eyes frantically searching the room for some sort of non-existent escape from this nightmare.  
"Not a demon? Well, okay, _technically_. But your blood is demon blood, and it always will be. All of it, forever – renewing, endless, _infinite_," He emphasised that Sam was stuck like this forever, relishing his panic while pretending to care about him.

Sam sets his jaw, and narrowly avoids having a panic attack. Okay, so he's not a demon. He's still human, he's just a little . . . Just a bit . . . _evil, wrong, corrupted_.  
But there's still hope, even if it's stained with demon blood . . .

"You're still one of us, Sam. Why do you think your powers were good enough to transport you here?"  
"I – I didn't, I was in the desert-" Sam stutters.  
"You think it's as simple as switching on a light, dumbass? It takes practise," Ruby comments, her ice clinking against her glass as she laughs. Suddenly, she's not laughing anymore. She's choking.

"You dare be insolent to my son? He's more powerful than you could ever imagine. You can't even begin to see how important he is, _my dear_," The demon tells her calmly, holding his hand out to lift her from the ground mentally, and choking her. He isn't even looking at her, just gazing at Sam, looking bored.

Her face is going bright red. Her neck looks as if it's bruised already. She can't breathe, or move, or protest-

"That's enough," Sam asserts. Or, at least, he tries.  
"Then make me stop," The demon counters with a sinister glint in his eyes. Sam looks in alarm at Ruby, whose vessel – if it isn't dead already – is on its way out.  
"I – I can't!" Sam replies angrily.  
"Of course you can. You're my son. The Boy King of Hell. You're stronger than you could ever imagine, Sam," He purrs sickeningly.

Sam concentrates – he really, _really _does – and holds his hand out, trying to grip her mentally and pull her out of the other demon's grasp . . . But it's way too hard. Yellow eyes' powers are so steadfast and confident, while his – as Ruby pointed out – are new, and require practise. The deck's stacked.

He releases his grip, panting. Strangely, his nose isn't bleeding – it didn't during his vision, either, and he supposes that's because of the extra blood making his powers stronger, if not strong enough yet to defeat the demon.

"I'm _not _your son," He growls, hands on his knees, looking up at the demon's yellow eyes and sickly, smiling face through his hair.  
"Yes, you are. After all – we share our eye colour-"  
"_No_! No, I-" Sam tries to stop him.  
"-and our blood type, unlike you and your dear dead departed human father. He wasn't even your father, you know. Ever wondered why you look so different?" The demon comments nonchalantly, though Sam can tell the teasing comment is strictly meant to fuck with his head – it isn't a serious claim. The blood, however . . .

"No . . . No, this isn't . . . I can't-" He grips his head, and squeezes his eyes so tight shut that it actually starts to hurt. He hears Ruby's ribs get crushed, and crack under the pressure the demon is putting on them. He feels claustrophobic, and closed-in, and tight-chested like it's _his _chest being squeezed, and whispers, "I need – I can't – I need to-"

"-get out of here,"

Sam casts his gaze about. He isn't in the hotel room anymore . . . He's in a motel room, significantly cheaper-looking, and less enamoured with the colour gold. There are two double beds: one strewn with paper and journals, and the other virtually untouched, by the looks of it. There's an unopened duffel on the pristine-made bed, and an open one on the unmade bed, too. He imagines two people half-way through unpacking everything . . .

No, scratch that – he can see, as he moves towards the unmade bed, that it's covered in papers to do with demonic omens and symbols. Two _hunters _were here. Only one of them had slept, by the looks of it, or at least gotten into bed. The one closest to the door.

He lets out a shaking breath, and looks about; he's on edge, he's scared, he has no idea where he is, no money, no phone-

Then the restroom door opens. And Dean walks out. And all Hell breaks loose.

Sam finds himself pinned against the nearest wall face-first, a knife at his throat and his arms pinned behind his back.

"Who are you?" Dean asks. But before he can answer, Dean jumps the gun and moves straight on to the supernatural tests. Since when does his brother rush into that kind of thing?

Well, he did always like to shoot first and ask questions later, but . . . Did Dean even see that it was him? Or did he think he was just some stranger, in his motel room?

He hears the flick of Dean's silver pocket knife.

Oh God. This is it. The retribution Dean owes him for killing Jake is coming – whether Dean knows it's him or not, this is justice. Sam breaths out slowly, closing his eyes and waiting for the knife to come up and slit his throat.

But, instead, he feels it on his arm. He wonders what's going on, his head cloudy from being hit against the wall, and the impromptu teleportation, and the freaking waking-up-in-the-Nevada-desert debacle.

Next, he feels water thrown on him. It's cool, and soothing. Until it reaches the cut on his arm.

He screams in utter agony as the water leaks into the open wound, writhing with the pain of it. He can smell burning; the water feels like acid as it reacts with the blood coursing through his veins. He realises the first cut was the silver test, which he passed. The second was Holy water – he failed that one. He is royally fucked.

He hears Dean chuckle to himself – it's not a happy sound. Sam tries to breathe through the pain as his brother turns him around and says:  
"I gotta say, I've exorcised some dumb-ass sons of bitches in my time, but you have got to be the-"

Sam's eyes meet Dean's, and force him to stop talking: in that moment, those green eyes turn from being fearless and mildly amused to being completely and utterly full of rage. Sam has never been more scared of _anyone_ in his life – aside from the yellow-eyed demon. _Maybe_.

"You piece of shit," His brother says in a quiet, enraged voice that barely manages to contain the sheer amount of hatred Dean feels, "You've made your last mistake possessing Sammy,"


	4. IV

_**AN: **__it's all one scene. And it's all torture/interrogation (well, 99%). So, warnings for violence and language apply. You've been warned! _

_Hope you enjoy this chapter. Finally, we get to see what Dean's become while Sam's been off . . . _Wherever_. Thanks for the reviews, alerts and favourites, and thanks to everyone reading! _

* * *

"So," Dean begins, playing subtly with a knife as he sits casually on his bed, and watches Sam's face carefully, "Which one of you was dumb enough to wear my brother's meat-suit?"

Sam's on the verge of screaming at this point. He's had the worst day, culminating in being bound to a chair, in a devil's trap he isn't sure won't work on him, about to be tortured by his own brother, who thinks he's a demon. And now he has to find _some _way of convincing Dean he's still human . . . _Kind of_.

"I'm not-" He begins, trying to catch Dean's eye for longer than a half-second at a time. His brother is reluctant to even look at him.  
Before he knows it, Dean lunges at him, his face dark and his knife swooping down to hover above Sam's leg. The younger brother gasped, afraid that Dean would stab him. The terror and anticipation was worse than if he'd actually been stabbed . . . Probably.  
"Don't try to lie to me," He whispers in warning. It's clear he isn't going to repeat himself.

Dean steps back again, and circles the devil's trap. Sam cranes his neck to see him, but he inevitably disappears.

"Are you Azazel?" His brother asks, and he seems as comfortable with the word as Sam is _uncomfortable_ with it. It sounded like a name, but he didn't have a clue who it was.  
"Who?" Sam frowns, tugging at the ropes that bind his arms and legs; fidgeting though it causes the coarse material to rub against his tender skin. He needs to get out of the bindings; he's beginning to feel claustrophobic again.

And hungry. God, he feels hungry.  
_- Focus! _

"I mean, I know he's been prepping Sam for _something _evil this whole time, but I just don't think he's enough of an amateur to get caught this easily in a Winchester's motel room . . . Perhaps you're Meg, again. Like his body so much you came back for seconds, huh?" Dean asked, reappearing from behind Sam and playing with the knife, twirling and flicking it in all sorts of ways that make Sam squirm. "That'd _really_ make you one cold-hearted bitch. Couldn't just let him go, could you?"

"Dean, please-" Sam begs quietly, trying to maintain some dignity in the face of this clusterfuck of a situation, and only half-succeeding.

His brother suddenly lashed out, slashing into the skin of Sam's left hand. The knife left a deep, long diagonal cut, from his wrist to his knuckles, and Sam bit his lip, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to make any noise.

Dean leant in close as the wound began to bleed vigorously.  
"Don't fucking say my name in his voice or I swear to God I will cut your fucking tongue out and make you tell me what I want to know in fucking _sign language_. Now, if you please," Dean spat, moving closer and closer to Sam's chair slowly and deliberately: "Who. The Hell. Are you?"  
"I'm your brother, Dean! You have to believe me!" Sam perseveres.

"Wrong answer," Dean replied, infuriated by Sam using his name again, and his apparent refusal to answer his question. He approached Sam once more; the younger gulped and breathed heavily, his eyes full of alarm and fear as Dean produced his flask of Holy water.

Dean figured that he didn't know why this demon only reacted with Holy water when it hit his blood – perhaps because it was more powerful than the other more low-rent demons he'd been interrogating, making its skin invulnerable to the water's effects – but he was going to exploit that fact as much as he damn well liked.

The older Winchester tipped the flask onto the wound in Sam's hand, causing him to cry out in shock and pain. His hand trembled as it hissed and smoked, the blood stinging, burning; the skin all around the wound began to burn and blister too, causing Sam's eyes to water. He even whimpered involuntarily. This was worse than he could ever have imagined: he, unlike all the other demons Dean had tortured, wasn't Hell-hardened and jaded. This was his first time being tormented with Holy water.

Dean screwed the top back on his flask, grimacing at the face of his brother as it contorted with pain, and let out almost animalistic noises of fear and agony. This wasn't how demons usually reacted, and the fact it was his brother's face . . . He shifted where he stood, and shook himself, putting off any notions of mercy. This bastard was controlling Sammy's possibly lifeless body. He'd find a way to kill him.

Dean selected one of his best hunting knives from his collection, which he'd laid out on the bed earlier for the thing inside Sam to see.

"No, no – Dean, please, they did something to me – I've got the blood, I can't-" Sam tried to explain quickly, struggling frantically now as the knife edged closer to his chest. He was still trying to come up with something that would explain this whole situation to Dean – though he still didn't understand it fully himself – _and _deal with the pain from his hand, which pulsated and irradiated his whole body.  
"Yeah, yeah – save it til _after _I've peeled your skin off," Dean replied nonchalantly.  
"But . . . I-it's Vegas week-"

Dean paused, his knife held just above the skin of Sam's neck as he looked him in the eye. He saw the utter terror there, and the hope, too.

". . . Go on," He responds, now holding the knife centimetres from Sam's stubbly throat. The younger brother gulped again.  
"Not til you put that down and listen to what I have to say," Sam gambles, remaining completely still and holding his breath after indicating Dean's knife with his eyes, and waiting for Dean's unreadable expression to change. In the silence, his pulse throbs so hard he swears Dean could probably hear it.

Dean reluctantly moved to sit back on his bed, although his back remained ramrod straight throughout.  
"You have two minutes. After that, it's open season. We clear?" He asks tersely.  
Sam nods enthusiastically, though he knows his face is still etched with pain. Dean looks at his watch, so he takes that as permission to begin.  
"I . . . I know I've been gone for three months. But the last thing I remember was . . . Was killing Jake – in self-defence. See, he's just killed Ava, and he almost stabbed me in the back, but I caught him just in time with a rock, and-" He realised he should probably give a cliffsnotes version of what happened after that. "Then I passed out, and when I came to, I was forty-five minutes out of the city. Some couple gave me a ride in, and I had a vision while I was in their car. I saw Yellow Eyes-"  
"Azazel?" Dean asks with a stoic mask of impassivity on his face.  
". . . That's his name?" Dean nods, pointedly looking down at his watch. "Azazel. He was in a room in Caesar's Palace, and I figured he put me here, so I went to him for answers. He had this chick – this demon, Ruby – and he was torturing her, and saying all these awful things about – about what he'd done to me, and how they'd had me for three months, but I don't, I can't – I can't remember any of it, and I sort of shut my eyes and I ended up here and I know you're gonna hate me and it's Vegas week and-" He was beginning to panic, biting his lip and trying his best not to move his hand in his anxiety.

"Whoa, whoa – calm down, Sa-" Dean was already across the threshold of the devil's trap, his hand in Sam's hair and half-way through a gentle _Sammy_, when he realised his mistake.

Sam and Dean both looked at the hand, and then at each other's faces, dumbstruck. Dean withdrew, clearing his throat. Sam's own hand throbbed with pain, and he glanced at it. The skin around the cut had blackened slightly, dead.

"So, you . . . Teleported in here?" Sam nods, unsure whether or not he's won Dean over. "How? The salt lines-"  
"I'm not a demon, Dean," He assured his brother, all the while breathing through the pain, maintaining a steady rhythm so as to calm himself down.  
"Tell that to the Holy water," Dean quipped back.  
"It got in the cuts _you _made!" Sam replied angrily. "It reacted with the blood! My hand is painful as Hell, by the way, jerk," He gritted out.  
"Quit bein' a bitch, Sammy,"

The familiar nickname slipped out without thought this time. Sam shifted in his seat awkwardly; he flexed his hand, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to repress any noises of pain when he finds that moving it is like renewing the wound over again. Dean got up to inspect all the salt lines, confirming that, yes, Sam couldn't have crossed them – even by teleportation – if he were a demon.

"If you're not a demon, then what are you?" Dean asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.  
"I . . . I'm human, I think?" Sam replies, though it's really anyone's guess by now. Dean raises his eyebrow, and he realises he needs to start talking fast if he wants the chance to eat, drink, pee, sleep, and seek medical attention outside of the chair he's on. "Yellow- uh, Azazel said he had me for three months. He said he performed a full blood transfusion on me, and some kind of _ritual _to make sure my blood would always be demon blood – like, so it renews as demon blood, or something? I – I don't really know. Maybe Bobby could look it up," Sam suggests helpfully. Dean nods once.

Then, he makes his decision with a heavy sigh to match the fatigue in his sunken, reddening eyes: he gets up, brandishing his knife, and Sam holds his breath, half anticipating another cut that could be abused with Holy water. He lets it out once the blade stops short of his skin, and cuts only the ropes holding him. Once his right hand is free, he grabs the knife off of Dean – who looks slightly alarmed for a second – and uses it to cut the ropes around his ankles and waist, and then to ever so carefully free his left hand, which he then cradles to his chest. Standing up, he's taken by surprise when Dean barrels into him, attacking him with a bone-crushing hug.

"Whoa!" Sam huffs, as the air is squeezed suddenly out of him, "Mind the hand, dude," He reminds his brother, stoically managing to hide the fresh agony his brother had accidentally caused him.  
Dean gasps as he pulls back and looks at the damaged limb, looking guilty.  
"Sorry . . ." Dean mutters, looking at the injury. Then, he turns his gaze to the floor, and back up to Sam's eyes.  
"Thought you weren't a big hugger, anyway?" Sam asked to change the subject. He didn't want his brother to beat himself up too much for a wound that wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't such a _freak_.  
"Thought you were _dead_, Sammy. Dead," Dean reveals, and Sam's heart damn-near stops in his chest. He hadn't thought about that. Sure, he thought Dean would think he'd run off to be some demon's bitch-boy, or become a meat-suit again, but actually _killed_ . . .  
"Nah," He replies finally, as he pulls away, keeping his tone light despite the pain and tension evident in his demeanour. Gripping Dean's shoulder with his right hand, he adds, "As if I'd miss Vegas week!"

Dean laughs, and it sounds like it surprises even him; like he hasn't done for real it in a very long time, and he's forgotten how. Sam breaks the awkward tension caused by Dean's obvious misery these past three months by lightly saying, "Now I gotta hit the head. Haven't been in _months_, y'know,"

Dean just laughs again.


	5. V

_**AN: **__Wow! This story has gathered quite a lot of interest, which is lovely - thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed, liked or favourited it. You're all stars. _

* * *

Later, when Sam's hand has been lovingly disinfected and wrapped in a bandage by his brother, and he's trying not to groan from how nice the pizza Dean ordered by way of an apology is, Dean explains the almost-literal Hell that has been his life for the past three months.

"We got there just a minute too late. We saw Jake, and I could see you standing over him – you looked scared, Sammy . . . You were terrified," Dean was whispering towards the end of that particularly hideous memory.

Sam just nods and stares down at his pizza.

"You were shaking, and I thought you were having some kind of fit. I ran over, but by the time I got there . . . There was like this, _lightening_, and then there was just this scorched patch of ground where you used to be," Dean recounted miserably.

Sam looked up at his brother apologetically. But all sympathy was gone in a second once Dean confessed, "I summoned a crossroads demon, and . . . And I tried to get her to make a deal for you,"  
"You tried to sell your soul to bring me back?" Sam asked incredulously, dropping the crust of the current slice of pizza he'd just been eating. He wasn't hungry anymore.  
"I had to get you back, Sammy! You know it's my job, to look out for you!"  
"And what's my job, Dean?!" Sam yelled back, angry at how careless his brother had been, "I'm not a kid anymore! I don't need taking care of! And you know as well as I do, what's dead should stay dead!"

Dean was opening his mouth and drawing breath to yell back at his brother when it happened: all at the same time, Sam's eyes flashed in anger, and all the light bulbs in the room began to shake and rattle in their fastenings; the intensity of the shaking built up, unnoticed by Sam, who was still staring in disbelief at his brother.

But his brother wasn't looking at him anymore. ". . . Sammy," He says in a low voice, looking carefully around the room. When the first bulb explodes, he shades his eyes with his forearm. Sam is equally surprised by the sudden mass of glass being thrown at them, as every bulb in the room shatters explosively.

They are plunged into darkness, the only light provided by the bathroom bar-light. Dean looks at Sam, who, both because of the whiteness of the bathroom light and the darkness of the room, looks much more innocent and pale than usual.

"I didn't – I didn't mean to do that," He tells Dean in a small voice. The dumb statement is like a child trying not to get in trouble. It didn't matter: they both knew he _did _do it, whether he meant to or not.

He suddenly remembered his Dad's words to his brother–  
. . . _said I might have to kill you, Sammy . . ._  
–the remarks from the yellow-eyed demon–  
_You're my son . . . The Boy King of Hell_.

It's too much.

The next morning, he won't mention how he remembers Dean brushing the pizza off the bed, and tucking him under the blankets; he certainly won't mention that he remembers crying silently.

It was a tough day. Resurrection – or, thereabouts – was hard. But Dean had dealt with it, in his traditional way, stroking Sam's head, not caring that his blood was laced with sulphur, and always whispering–

_It'll be better in the morning. You'll see.  
I promise._

* * *

"I've been doing a lot of . . . Research," Dean mentioned over a breakfast of waffles from polystyrene containers in their motel room.

Sam finished up re-wrapping his hand, and grabbed a fork. "You mean – torturing demons?" He asked, one eyebrow raised; he knew his brother too well, and was remembering his interrogation of Meg when his father was missing. He could only imagine what Dean was like without him there to mediate his actions.

He took a bite of waffle and watched Dean's facial expression dance about what he was about to say; saw him try and figure out _how _to say it.  
"Well – I've – you see, it's, it was _necessary_, and I was desperate-"  
"Dean. You're not gonna offend me. I'm _not _a demon, aside from the blood. It's not like they're my brothers or anything . . . Besides, they've done a number on me, and stolen three months of my life. I kinda want a bit of revenge here," He added with a half-smile.

Dean surveyed Sam's face for a few second, before smiling back at him. Sam could tell he was about to launch into the details of his i_nvestigations_ without having toedit his words for his brother.  
"Bobby and I managed to capture a few of those crossroads bitches, and . . . _Question _them. Forcefully. They all said something big was going on, something huge – they said there was some ritual or other taking place.  
"By the time I learned that it was in Wyoming, near the devil's gate, and managed to get a precise location out of one of them, they were gone. We scoped out the place – there were all these strange symbols, and burnt herbs, and all the usual fucked-up bones and an alter and shit. The demons were all gone – but we didn't want to risk them coming back, so we left pretty quick,"  
"Did you learn what kind of ritual?" Sam asked thoughtfully.  
". . . No," Dean replied apologetically. Sam could see it in his eyes; hear it in his words, as if they'd been said outright: the ritual could have been something to do with Sam's never-ending demon blood supply. "They just said it was something that was gonna help open the devil's gate . . . Sam, do you think that's where they-"  
"I don't remember anything . . . I wouldn't be able to tell you, Dean. But Vegas money's on _yes_,"  
"Then how did you escape? Teleportation?" Dean asked, frowning into his breakfast.

Sam finished his waffles, and pushed the box away. Dean's had hardly been touched: Sam suspected that his 'resurrection' had made Dean's stomach impossibly unwilling to consume any food at all, at least for now.

"I guess so. Teleported myself to here – ended up in the desert. That Ruby chick said it's cause I didn't have enough _practise_," He answered, using air quotation marks.  
"Then how did you end up in my motel room?"  
Sam shrugged, squinting around as if searching the room for an answer: "I . . . Don't know. Same room as last year, maybe?"  
"Maybe," Dean answered in a non-committal tone.

The older Winchester got up and grabbed his journal from his duffel bag, rifling through the pages as he began to share some more:  
"I've been continuing Dad's work, researching Azazel. Managed to track him a bit, but he was flicking all over the place. I'm guessing if that Wyoming place _was _where you were being held, he didn't stay and hold your hand through it. He had other shit to attend to, like opening the devil's gate,"  
"I wouldn't know," Sam supplies, feeling like the least useful resource available to Dean at that moment . . . He decided to do something about that. "Hey, Dean – do you wanna visit that place? Just, you know, in case anything jogs my memory?" He asked with trepidation.  
"Bit of a drive, don't you think? It'll take days, and we already know the demon's here – we'd be taking a big chance, he could be gone by the time we-"  
"Not if I take us," Sam replies, and holds his breath.  
". . . What?" Dean asks, frozen holding his journal open on a particularly nasty page about a school massacre supposedly perpetrated by someone possessed by Azazel.

"Well, uh – what Ruby said-"  
"She's a demon, Sam," Dean interrupted quickly, his harsh tone of voice leaving no room for questioning his absolute disapproval of this 'Ruby'.  
"-but she knows more about this than we do! And, besides – don't you think teleportation would be a pretty useful skill on a hunt?" He reasons.

Dean looks like he's trying to contain some rage for a moment; he sighs, letting some anger out, and actually hearing his brother out. He's annoying, but he's right. He sure did miss his bitching. He just hopes that Sam isn't enjoying this whole 'demonic powers' gig too much.

". . . Think you could take two people from Nevada to Wyoming, with weapons and all?"  
"I could try?" Sam replies, shrugging and looking unsure.  
"Then get dressed. I'll get the address – oh, and, uh . . . Your duffel's over there," He adds, pointing to the unopened bag discarded at the end of Sam's bed. Sam thought it weird that Dean had brought his stuff into the room without knowing he'd turn up; that he'd got a double room when he thought he was going to be alone.

Maybe he wanted Sam to have something to come home to, if he was alive, and turned up. He understood now why Dean was so upset to see him at first, to the point of anger: getting Sam back had been his greatest wish and, what with everything that happened with Dad, and what happened to Sam at Cold Oak, he thought he didn't deserve it.

"What's the matter?" Dean asks, and Sam realises that he'd been standing with his hand on a non-dirt-covered pair of jeans this whole time, simply stroking the fabric like a total dork.  
"Nothing, just – thanks,"  
"No chick flick moments," Dean asserts, looking down at the journal so Sam couldn't see just how widely he was grinning. Their usual routine had been restored. Just, with a bit more teleportation and demon blood.

They were going to be okay.

* * *

"Ready?"

"Quit asking me that, jerk,"  
"Whatever, bitch . . . But seriously,"  
"Yes, Dean! I'm ready!" Sam snapped, gripping his sawn-off tightly in one hand, and the piece of paper with the address of the warehouse on it in the other.  
"You okay to hold that?" Dean asked, indicating the shotgun.  
"Yeah. My palm's fine," Sam replies softly, knowing that Dean still feels guilty as hell about the cut on the back of his left hand. He changes the topic quickly. "I . . . I think the reason I ended up in the desert last time is cause I wasn't specific enough about where I wanted to go. Like, when I came to your room, that was specific, even if it wasn't a conscious decision, so this time-" He babbled.  
"It'll work. Hopefully," Dean cut in over Sam's geeky explanation.  
"It'll work," Sam insists, grabbing Dean by the shoulder, causing his brother to raise an eyebrow. "Now shut up and let me memorise this,"  
"Sure hope you can take two people. And I don't want to end up underground. Or in a wall,"  
"You're hilarious," Sam gritted out, concentrating.  
"Seriously, do _not _get us stuck in a wall, or so help me I will kick your ass," Dean repeats.  
"_Dude!_" Sam growls angrily.

". . . Dude yourself," Dean murmurs, looking around. They sure aren't in Vegas anymore.  
"Oh," Sam replies, sheepishly looking about.

That's it. That's the warehouse. Near an old cowboy graveyard in East-Jesus nowhere, Southern Wyoming.  
"Yeah," Dean agrees, and they stand in silence for a minute. Then, Dean takes a deep breaths, plasters one of his cocky smiles all over his face, and says, "Cool party trick, man. Not the best I've seen though. Met this chick once, she could-"  
"I'm gonna stop you right there," Sam quickly interrupted, wrinkling his nose.  
"Whatever. C'mon, let's have a look-see," Dean replies, and strides over to the building with a confidence he doesn't actually possess.

Dean entered first, his shotgun ready to shoot anyone who'd decided to trespass in the building since the last time he was there. "Room's this way," Dean mutters, and Sam follows him, knowing the only room he could possibly be referring to was the ritual room.

But he couldn't be prepared for what he saw when he got there. Dean flicked on the switch to the one overhead bar light, and the entire grim scene was revealed to him.  
"Holy . . ." He began, but his speech soon trailed off. He gulped, and cast his gaze around. Dean's description had left out the horror of the room. Dean's face was bleak, as if he were regretting bringing Sam here at all.

There were large jars of blood on every available filthy, white-tiled surface; Sam couldn't tell if they were demon blood, or human. He wondered if it was _his _blood – after all, when they drained it out of him, he wasn't sure what they'd done with it.

Because it was certain that this was the room; that they had drained his blood here. There was no mistaking it. Now that Dean knew about the blood transfusion, he guessed that this place would make twisted sense to him in a way that it hadn't before.

The centrepiece, as Dean had mentioned, was an altar. There were rings screwed into it, as if restraints had been used. He reached out and touched them, running his fingers along them; he shuddered when tiny pieces of rust deposited on his fingers. It looked like dried blood.

The altar itself was mainly tiled, with cement showing in places where the tiles had been cracked or chipped away, and the occasional few drops of blood. There were needles and IV tubes scattered about on the floor, trying to trip him up with every step. They made it certain that this was, in fact, a place of pain and makeshift surgery.

With an anxious expression, he looked at Dean, who had shut off emotionally, as was clear from his blank, stoic face: "This is the place," He whispered, though he may as well as yelled it for all the impact it had; for how loud it sounded in the silent room.

"Can you . . . Can you get some of those symbols drawn? I wanna try something, and I'm gonna need silence," Sam requested, indicating the symbols and sigils on the walls and door with tremulous hands. His brother simply nodded, which scared Sam: he'd never known Dean to take the path of least-resistance before, without as much as a '_jeez, Samantha_'. Perhaps it was because of how badly this room was freaking him out; what he knew had been done to his brother here.

While Dean set to work sketching, Sam set his sawn-off down on the floor, and lifted himself up to sit on the altar, taking a moment to steady himself and let his queasiness dissipate. He lay down on it, so his arms were about level with the metal rings. He looked up at the ceiling, and willed the memories to come back. In a moment or two, he unfortunately got his wish.


	6. VI

_**AN: **__unfortunately, it's that time of year again - exam revision is taking over! I have a little more written, but I don't want to short-change you with tiny chapters. Please just be patient if there are a lack of updates! And thanks for all your lovely reviews and other forms of support. Your PMs, favourites and alerts are all very heartening, and it's great to hear from you. So, thanks!_

* * *

Boy, did the memories of what had happened in the ritual room come back.

Sam opened his eyes, and remembered seeing that girl Ruby standing there with a straight razor. He remembered _his eyes going wide, and opening his mouth to scream but being unable to, and breathing heavily through flared nostrils-  
"Hey, stop that! Just giving you a shave, _your majesty_. Quit being such a little bitch about it,"  
_Sam smirked despite himself as he remembered calming down once she'd said that: probably because she'd explained why she had a razor, and because she'd used one of Dean's frequent nicknames for him.  
_"The boss might think the sun shines outta your ass, but I couldn't care less if I accidentally cut your throat. You'd probably care though, so you'd better stay still. Got it?" She asks plainly. He nods hesitantly, and wonders why he can't talk, or move. He glances down and sees the restraints on his wrists; the IV full of blood in his arm. He's not sure whether it's giving or receiving blood. Then he sees the IV in his other wrist, and wonders how the Hell they're gonna get every drop of human blood out of him while feeding in the demon blood. He guesses some sort of spell, but he's damned if he knows what kind. _

_He's damned anyway. He's a murderer, being held in a basement or something, being shaved by a demon with a straight razor. 'Damned' is too weak a word – 'fucked' probably puts it better_.

Sam sits up, breathing harshly. He slides off the altar, backing away, suddenly just needing to get away from it. He backed up to the wall, blinking rapidly, trying to form coherent speech.  
"I . . . I couldn't talk," He murmurs to Dean.  
"What?" His brother asks, finishing up another symbol and glancing over. It takes Sam a moment to collect himself, and answer his brother's question.  
"I think there was some kind of spell to help the transfusion, and another one so I couldn't talk. We'll have to research that," Sam says, trying to prevent his voice from wavering as he remembers how completely helpless he felt during his time as a prisoner here. "Can I help? I just, I want to – I wanna get out of here as quickly as possible," He stammers, forcing a watery smile.

Dean silently appraises his brother, looking him up and down, and notices how he shakes all over.  
"Then go wait outside, Sammy. I'll just be a minute,"

Sam nods his thanks, and leaves the room in a hurry, picking up his discarded shotgun, and wondering if his weak hands could even fire it right now. He thinks he hears Dean sigh on his way out, and wonders if his brother is disappointed in him.  
He should be. He couldn't – he didn't even fight back.

He was still reeling from the memories before he realised he didn't have them anymore.

What was he so upset about?

Sam frowned, and turned back to the threshold of the door. What happened in there? He felt like he'd known only a moment ago about the untold horrors he'd experienced, but now . . . He just drew a blank.  
"Dude, what's wrong?" Dean asked, looking up from where he was scowling at something on the floor.  
"I – I don't know," Sam mumbled, looking around in confusion.  
"Is it a vision?" Dean demanded urgently, and Sam was reminded suddenly of the woman who'd helped him – Laurie. There must be something about him that made people feel inclined to baby him.

As he stepped across the threshold, he continued that train of thought. Sure, his dad had been pretty distant, but Dean had more than made up for it. Even Ruby had taken the time to shave him when he was being held-

_Oh_.

"Oh my God," Sam breathed, and looked back across the threshold to the hallway.  
"Seriously, you're starting to freak me out, man," Dean pressed, sounding annoyed.  
"This room . . . I think there's some kind of, symbol, or spell, but as soon as I leave . . . As soon as I step over the threshold, I can't remember what happened in here anymore,"

Dean paused, frozen where he was for a minute. Sam saw rage burning in his eyes, and braced himself for Dean's anger. Whether it would be for him or _at _him, he couldn't say. He still couldn't dispel the thought that maybe, just maybe, Dean would try and kill him at any moment.

_If it's supernatural, we kill it. End of story. _

"That's it. I'm torching the place," Dean growled suddenly.  
"Dean! No, we can't do that – what if we need it?" Sam protested.  
"Need it? Sam, I've got all the symbols written down,"  
"But what if I need to remember something? About the, the – _procedure_?"  
"What if you don't wanna remember? . . . What if _I_ don't want you to remember?"

Sam's mouth shut abruptly with a click. He gritted his teeth, as Dean continued:  
"Sammy, just bein' here makes you on edge. I can see you having some emo breakdown from over here, and I haven't even been lookin' at you most of the time," He was staring at the tiled floor, the whiteness covered in a russet colour that he was obviously hoping wasn't Sam's blood. He didn't make eye contact with his brother, as if looking him in the eye _and _sharing his feelings would be the straw that broke the camel's back; everything he'd been feeling over the past three months – his desperation to find his brother, his shame at being unable to do so, and his utter anguish and disappointment when every demon he tried to make a deal with to get Sam back refused to cooperate – might just fall out of his mind, tumbling out through his mouth like an avalanche.

Perhaps his complete fury and grief at being _too late_ by the time he found his little brother, too, would come out, Sam thought. Too late to save him; too late to save him from becoming a freak, a demon blooded _monster_-

Sam sighed in understanding.  
"I get it. I do. You don't want me to get hurt, or upset. I don't wanna feel that way either. But, look until . . . Until Bobby tells us he's got everything he needs to work out what kind of bad mojo they used on me, we have to leave it,"

"Fine. But I ain't got to like it," Dean mumbled. Then, a thought occurred to him: "Hey, seeing as you're not gonna remember any of this-" He gestured to the room with his hands, "-before you leave, you've gotta tell me everything you know, so I can tell Bobby,"

Sam didn't like the idea – it terrified him, actually. But Dean's suggestion was reasonable, and it made sense.

So, he told him everything he could remember, starting with, "Well, it's still a little fuzzy, and this probably isn't _everything _by any stretch . . ." and ending with, ". . . I'm no doctor, but I don't think that's something you'd see on your typical episode of ER. I'm not even sure how they got it to work, but clearly . . ."  
"They did," Dean finished for him curtly. Sam nodded. ". . . Look, we should really get back to Vegas. I don't wanna leave all my research on Azazel unattended for too long, in case he turns up and torches it. And we need to regroup and make sure it's definitely the devil's gate _here_ that he wants opening, and not another one,"  
"Yeah . . . Let's get out of here," Sam agrees, with one last worried look around the room. In his heart of hearts, he was glad he wouldn't remember this place. Somehow, though, he didn't think Azazel had made him unable to remember the room out of some kind of wish to prevent mental trauma. He thought that it might be because what had happened here was so crucial.

Sam transported them back to Nevada without preamble.

"_Sammy! Sammy wake up!" _

_Sam mumbled incoherently, curling further into the comforter, reluctant to wake up. He knew he was behaving like a petulant teenager, but he had the feeling he'd been having a nice dream. _

_"Dad got us pancakes. Says we've gotta get our strength up for hunting the werewolves later," _

_Sam's eyes flew open, and he saw a pervasive greyness: he was staring into his pillow. No longer remotely tired, he twisted and sat up, brushing his hair from his face. This wasn't . . . What . . . ?_

_He cast his gaze about, and stopped breathing when he saw it:  
John. His Dad sat at the table, eating pancakes with Dean. He smiled when he saw Sam.  
"Up and at 'em, kiddo," He encouraged. _

_Sam got out of bed, and rushed over to his father. This wasn't . . .This – why . . . _

_John got up, his face slightly curious as to why Sam was acting surprised to see him.  
"Son?" _

_Sam grabbed ahold of him in a fierce hug.  
"Dad?" He asked in a shaky voice.  
"Sam," John replied, "It's good to see you again," His voice rumbled through Sam in a way he hadn't found comforting since he was about eight. That was probably the last time they'd hugged unprompted by trauma or tragedy . . . But it was different now. He hadn't seen his father in so long.  
"I missed you too, Dad," Sam replied.  
"You left me too soon, son," John chided lightly.  
"I . . . I didn't leave you. You left me. You sold your soul, for Dean," Sam countered, trying to pull away. John held him fast.  
"True . . . But that doesn't mean I can't come back,"  
"Dad?" Sam asked, struggling now to get away from his father.  
"Yes?" John asked, finally letting Sam move away from him; he maintained an iron grip on Sam's shoulders, holding him close still. _

_Sam finally saw them. The Yellow Eyes.  
"You're – you're not-"  
"I'm your real father, Sam. You just need to accept it. Then you can join me, and together, we can do anything," His father's suddenly hypnotic voice told him.  
"I'll never join you!" Sam screamed, thrashing about, trying to get free; he was impeded by an invisible force, keeping him still.  
"Don't you hear me? Anything . . . We can do _anything _together, Sammy. We can bring him back, son. John Winchester. Wouldn't that make you happy?" Azazel asked, in John's voice. Sam's horrified expression did nothing to stop the demon's speech. "Wouldn't that be what's best for Dean? For you to leave, and John to come back? – Face it, Dean wants to kill you in your sleep anyway, for being a freak. He doesn't understand you, Sam. Not like I do. He'd much rather have his Dad than you. You're not even his brother anymore," _

_Sam shook his head, denying it wordlessly, unable to articulate how completely he disagreed with the demon. Although he knew the demon was playing on his insecurities, he was insecure about Dean for a reason. _

_"So, why not do what's best for him? He gets to be with his father . . ." the demon pulled him closer, wrapping its hands around his wrists gripping them tightly, ". . . And you get to be with yours,"_

_"No! I'll – I'll never, never- _never!" Sam screamed, kicking and lashing out wildly with his eyes screwed shut. Suddenly, he found he was free to move; he could hear someone talking to him urgently, still holding his wrists, and shaking him.  
"Get off me!" He yelled, his eyes flying open.  
"Sammy! You're having a nightmare! It's not real, man – snap out of it," The voice urged, obviously straining to remain low and calm.

Dean. That's Dean's voice. His brain eventually computed, too that yes – this was Dean. Dean holding his wrists, so he didn't hurt himself. Dean trying to get him to wake up. Dean looking tied and worn out.

". . . Dean, he-" He gulped in much-needed air, and continued warily: "He came to me. As Dad – he said he could, said he-"

Sam's face crumpled slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut, tensing his muscles in an effort to distract himself from the lingering images of the dream. Dean let go of his wrists, sighing.  
"What did he do? Did he try and hurt you?"  
". . . He wanted . . . He said he could bring Dad back. All he needed was-"  
"Your soul?" Dean asked sceptically.  
"No, he wanted me to . . ._ Join _him. He kept going on about how he's my real Dad, and how you w-want to kill me," Sam recalled, his voice almost failing him at the revelation about Dean.  
"Demons lie, Sam!" Dean yelled in frustration. Sam tensed, backing up slightly into the headboard. From the look on his face, though, Dean immediately regretted losing his temper.

". . . Sorry. I just – I can't . . . All this bullshit he's tryin' to make you believe. You know none of it's true, right?"  
Sam nodded. Slowly.  
". . . Right?" Dean repeated. Sam sighed, and looked out of the window. He could see a liquor store's flashing neon sign, in the shape of a clown. It didn't help at all.

"He's just so powerful, Dean. I can't even begin to . . ."  
". . . But you know I don't want to hurt you, don't you? My job's to protect you, Sammy," Dean repeated, frowning at Sam's disturbing lack of belief that he still wanted Sam as a brother.  
"Even now? When I'm . . ." Sam gulped, looking ashamed of himself, as his sentence reached a dead end through necessity.  
"Especially now," Dean replied vehemently, looking Sam in the eye. "Sam, there is one mean son of a bitch out there, trying to get you to go dark side. It's all I can do to find him, and try to kill him. Before . . . Before I wanted to do it for Mom, and for Dad, but now all I want is to get him back for what he did to you. I don't ever, _ever_ want to let you go with him, or to hurt you," Dean promised.

Sam looked about the room, and noticed that there was paper everywhere. He also noticed that the paper wasn't in any sort of order; it was randomly strewn about, with different unrelated articles piled on top of one another until almost none of the hideous brown carpet was visible. He guessed that this wasn't Dean's work: it was his. Just like when he'd broken the bulb . . . It must have happened during the nightmare. He dragged his gaze up to meet Dean's.

"So you wouldn't let me go with him? . . . Even if you could get Dad back?"  
Dean inhaled slowly, and let the air go in a deliberately calm way.  
"No, Sammy. Not even to get Dad back. What's dead should stay dead," Dean confirmed, assuredly reciting his mantra.

Sam managed a smile, before he asked, "Dean?"  
"What?"  
"Did I do this?" He asked, gesturing at the paper on the floor with his chin. Dean smirked,  
"Yeah, Sammy. Pretty impressive. You're cleaning it up tomorrow, though. Now c'mon – get some more sleep. And no more nightmares, alright?"  
"Sure thing, Dean," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. He settled back down, some of his fears about Dean hating him quelled for now.

As he drifted off, he wondered whether or not Dean had seen his eyes go yellow when he'd smashed the bulbs. He wondered whether or not it would scare his brother to see him like that.

He wondered whether it would scare him, if he saw himself like that.


	7. VII

_**AN: **__blah blah slow updates blah. I'm really sorry! (honest)_

_Anyway. Thanks SO much for reading this story so far, and for all your favourites, and alerts, and reviews and stuff. They're all wicked-cool. _

_I have a little more of this written, but other than that I won't have much time to writing, unfortunately! Final exam revision owns my life right now. It'll all be over by June 20th. Between now and then there'll be a little more, though, so don't worry too much! 'Journal' is finished if you're interested. It's another AU. *shameless self-promotion*_

_Cheers again!_

* * *

"Bobby?"  
". . . Sam. It's good to hear from you, boy,"  
"And you," Sam replies quietly, and sniffs. It really is good to hear that gruff yet welcoming voice again: the main who'd raised him as much as his own father had, maybe more. He wondered, if it had been Bobby's life on the line in his dream rather than his father's, if it would have been even harder to resist the demon's offer. He didn't know what he'd do if it threatened Bobby. Other than pray, that is.

"Dean tells me you . . . Changed a bit, since I last saw you," Bobby states, obviously choosing his words carefully.  
Sam curses the fact that Bobby feels the need to try and spare his feelings. If he hadn't killed Jake . . . That action weighed hard on his shoulders, despite the fact that he knew he'd be dead if he hadn't gone through with it. It was completely beside the point. But he would have at least died one hundred percent pure human-

"Boy? . . . I shouldn't have-" Bobby apologises. Sam closes his eyes, and sighs.  
"No, it's fine. It's not your fault,"  
"Well it ain't yours, either. We're gonna get those sons of bitches that did this to you, you hear?"  
"Yeah," Sam admits quietly. He still feels sheepish and ashamed talking to Bobby, and receiving so much support from him. He's not sure he deserves it.

He wonders if it still counts as 'survivor's guilt' if you're the reason the others didn't survive.

"Good. You keep that in mind now, will you? . . . Here, let me speak to your brother again. Need to get the particulars off of him about that place they were keeping you,"  
"Okay. Thanks, Bobby – just, thanks," He summarises.  
"You're welcome, Sam. Always," Bobby assures him. He smiles weakly, even though he knows the older hunter can't see him.

He walks back inside the motel room, and hands the phone back to Dean, who takes it with a nod of thanks.  
"Hey, old man . . . Huh? No, I won't _fax _'em over, this ain't the nineties . . . Yeah, I know it still works . . . Sure, thanks. I'll email them. Like someone from the twenty-first century would," Dean finishes, and puts down the phone, rolling his eyes. Sam snorts in amusement at how exasperated he looks, as his brother starts to dutifully take pictures of all the symbols and sigils they noted down to upload and send to Bobby.

Sam can tell that his brother is still upset about his dream. He's irritable, and Sam thinks it might be because of the false hope the demon had dangled in front of them in the form of their absent father. He just wanted his hero back so badly, but there was no way he could do that at Sam's expense. This was completely unfair on him, in addition to having to look after his demonic little brother.

Sam had tried bringing this up earlier, only to have Dean snap back at him: "Unfair on me? Sam, I'm not the one with the cuts that burn when Holy water gets in them. I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about,"  
_Like always_, Sam had wanted to reply. But he bit his lip and kept quiet.

Once he'd finished his task, Dean sat back on his bed, and stared at Sam, who was organising his clothes from the previous day on the radiator to dry. He wasn't really paying attention; he just picked at the threads, and smoothed out the material again and again. Dean sighed.  
"Hey, Sammy?"  
"Mmm?" His brother replied, his vacant expression still in place.  
"It's Vegas week, and Bobby won't get back to us for a while, so as long as we steer clear of Caesar's Palace . . . Wanna hit some Casinos?"

Sam turned to him, a wide smile spreading across his face.

* * *

"I don't know, Sammy. You were on fire. You _sure _it wasn't anything to do with your visions?"  
"Believe me, Dean," Sam replied as he followed his brother through the threshold back into their motel room, "You'd have known about it if I was having a vision,"  
"Yeah, that's right – you always sort of, pass out," Dean agreed, flopping unceremoniously down onto his bed, face-first. Sam lingered by the door, closing it and biting his lip. He eyed his brother, wondering if this late hour, when Dean was still buzzing from their gambling success, was the right time to tell him about the whole 'my eyes go yellow when I'm having a vision' thing.

"Well, yeah, but . . . Not really," Sam fumbled, trying to tread carefully. He distracted himself with the troublesome task of slipping his boots off without undoing them.

Dean rolled over, a child-like look of confusion on his weary face. "Huh?"  
"I sort of, uh – well, I had a vision that told me I was going to meet up with Azazel. I was in this couple's car, and I didn't even pass out, and it didn't hurt – but the woman she said something happened to my eyes. Luckily, she just thought she was seeing things," He added.  
"They went black?"  
". . . Yellow,"

Dean sat up. Slowly.

"Your eyes go yellow?" He asked in a quiet, dangerous voice.  
Sam gulped. "Uh . . . Yeah? During visions . . . Not sure about the whole exploding light bulbs thing. You weren't really looking at me, you were kinda busy avoiding all the broken glass, or you could have forgotten, or-" He babbled.  
"Your eyes go yellow when you're using your powers," Dean repeated in the same low voice, a stern expression on his face.

Sam just nodded this time, twisting his hands together in anxiety.

". . . So that whole time, you weren't using your powers? – Do you realise what this means?" Dean asked, folding his arms.  
"W-what?" Sam asked, immediately cursing the fact that his nervousness had come out in his voice.  
"We could have been winning bigger this whole time, if you'd just pulled your finger out and worn contacts!" Dean replied with a cheeky grin.

Sam threw his boot at his brother angrily as soon as he realised Dean had been messing with him the whole time.  
"Dean! Quit being such a friggin' jerk!" Sam demanded, though his suppressed smile crept into his voice slightly.  
"Aw, you know you love it, Sammy. C'mon – you've got an appointment with your girlfriend over there," Dean replied, indicating the laptop. Sam was still extremely annoyed with his brother, but he was right: Sam needed to check for emails from Bobby. If he managed to receive the damn jpegs in the first place.

He waited patiently for the computer to resume, and watched Dean. If he was really honest, he was glad of the joke: it meant that Dean knew he was on edge around a hunter; that Dean knew Sam was scared of him, and wanted to show him that there was nothing to be afraid of. Dean had never been the best at talking about his feelings, but he sure loved to joke about them. And that was fine with Sam, now that he knew Dean was cool with the whole 'yellow eyes of your Mom's killer' gig.

"Okay . . . Here it is. Bobby's explained what each collection of symbols means – after a long, long paragraph about how we should be grateful he's still up at 3am to cater to our every whim . . . He's given us the short version.  
"So the first collection is – it's a spell for silence. So, soundproofing, or silencing someone, or both . . . You said in my memory, I couldn't talk?" Sam asked his brother, who nodded mutely, eager for the next symbol. Sam shifted slightly, and continued:  
"The next one is for memory – so, forgetting. Which should explain a lot. Apparently, 'creatures not born of this world' are invulnerable to it – which means demons probably remember what went on in there, as they were kinda born in Hell – _and_ why I keep forgetting.  
"The next one is a protection sigil, against those disloyal to the one who drew the sigil. No enemies of the demon could enter or leave the room once the sigil had been drawn,"  
"So Yellow-Eyes drew it, and only those who truly followed him could get in to see you?" Dean surmises.  
"And I couldn't leave. Except – Bobby says it's partially crossed out. These lines here-" Sam indicated the image, and Dean leaned to see it briefly, "-negate it. I'm guessing they let me leave when they were done, even though I wasn't loyal to Azazel yet, obviously,"  
"Bad move by them – guess they didn't know you were gonna be able to Nightcrawler your way out of there,"

Sam rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement all the same.

"This one's for protection against infection, this one's against excessive blood loss . . . This one . . . This is for polarising blood. Human and demon,"  
"So that's how they made sure all the human blood came out, and only the demon blood got in?" Dean asked with a dubious expression.  
"Demonic dialysis," Sam sat back, shaking his head in disbelief.  
"I can't believe there's even a spell for that," Dean admitted.  
". . . Wait," Sam mumbled, scrolling down, "Apparently . . . Apparently, this isn't a new thing. Back in the middle ages, witches used to try and fully infuse themselves with the blood of the demons they worshipped, because in small quantities it gave them 'God-like powers' above others . . . Get this: they all died, according to Bobby. Either they got the spell wrong, or their bodies rejected it,"  
"So why would _you_ be okay?"  
"Well, for one, the demons knew what they were doing with the protection symbols . . . Then there's the blood Azazel fed me as a baby," Sam realised.  
"It's been a part of you so long, your body has just accepted it," Dean realised.

Sam nodded slowly to himself, his mouth setting into a grim line.  
"So if witches know about this spell – if we tell them about it, maybe we could find one who could reverse it?" Dean asked hopefully.  
"I don't think so Dean – you see this symbol here?" Sam asked, scrolling down slightly to show his brother the one he was talking about. "It's for permanence, in the eye of the spell-caster . . . So the only way of reversing the spell is to perform the ritual backwards _and _have Azazel's blessing. Other than that . . ."  
"It's for life," Dean finished curtly. He paused for a moment, then shook his head:"Nah, Sammy – we'll find a way. There's always a way-" Dean tried to reassure his younger brother.

"Dean," Sam interrupted, looking up from the computer screen with weary eyes at his deluded brother, "Face it. We're screwed. _I'm _screwed,"

Dean looked pensive for a moment, then fidgeted, his mouth opening and closing occasionally as he tried to think of an answer. Eventually, he scratched his head, and asked:  
"D'you think there's a 24-hour liquor store near here?"

* * *

Yes. Of _course _there was a 24-hour mini mart that had a huge selection of alcohol available to buy at any time of day. This was _Vegas_.

The brothers strolled in, for all the world looking like two normal – if somewhat tired – guys, on their way home after a night of gambling.

The thing was, even though it was approaching 3a.m., they were reluctant to sleep: every time Sam fantasised about getting sleep, he would remember last night's nightmare, and suddenly be fully awake and alert, and reluctant to repeat it; Dean didn't want to sleep until Sam did, and yet every time he thought about suggesting getting some rest to Sam, he'd turn to his brother, and see that haunted expression in his eyes that told him that sleep would only make things worse.

They were caught in an insomniac cycle. Thus, the whiskey.

As Dean set his choice of whiskey on the counter for the clerk to scan, Sam smiled at her. She half-smiled back, one side of her lips quirking upwards. Her eyes were almost impossibly dark, as was her hair. She was pretty, he had to admit, even in a filthy red uniform polo shirt. He looked away, finding the eye-contact hard to maintain. He watched her hands, instead, as she held the bottle, and typed something into the register; as she opened the till with a _ping_, and carefully selected the correct bills for Dean's change, brushing against bills and coins as she made up the correct amount. He couldn't look away.

He watched her fingers, entranced: the fingernails were a chipped dark purple; her make-up was black around the eyes. She looked – no, _felt _– familiar.

How can someone _feel_ familiar, and not look it? She sighed as she shut the till, and handed his brother the change. Sam remained standing at the counter for a moment, frowning down at her. She just looked back at him warily.

"C'mon, Sammy – it's rude to stare, dude," Dean said, springing him from his hypnotic trance with an elbow jab to his ribs.  
"Oh, uh – I-" Sam stuttered, realising the girl was looking at him in amusement now, and blushing. But his words trailed off, as Dean began to walk out of the store. Sam frowned, opening his mouth to say something.  
"What's wrong, Sammy? . . . Don't you recognise me?" The girl asked with a malicious smile that split her face. Her eyes flashed black.

Ruby.

His eyes widened, and in that moment he lunged after his brother with desperate a cry of, "_Dean!_-"

But when he saw Dean, he could see his brother convulsing where he stood, his back to Sam, facing the night; the bottle of whiskey slipped from his grip as he shook.  
"Dean, what-?!" He began, approaching his brother quickly. But he stopped when he turned around.

Dean's eyes were black, too. Sam finally understood: this was an ambush. He hadn't seen the demon go into Dean, because the night had been so black – you'd never have been able to see the black cloud against that backdrop.  
"Pleased to see me again, Sam?" Ruby asked, slapping her hand down onto Sam's shoulder, and making him jump. How did she get there so fast?!  
"What about me?" The other demon asked, using Dean's voice.  
"Y-you stay away from me!" He demanded, pointing at them both, and backing away slightly back into the store.  
"Aww, but Sammy – we're old friends!" The demon in Dean said, approaching him boldly. Both demons grabbed him, an arm each, and though he was stronger now, their combined strength was too much for him to shake – especially with the shock he was experiencing.  
"Old friends?" Sam asks, as he's led forcefully deeper into the store. He tries not to let the fact that Dean is possessed affect him, but it can't do anything _but_ affect him in this situation. Something evil is in Dean's body. He finds that, yes, he does recognise it in some strange way, but can't place it. In any case, it's holding his arm so tight there'll be bruises in minutes.

Dean's body is hurting him. And Dean is trapped inside it.

"Oh, you know – aside from me being Dean now, we were pretty close once," The Dean-demon explained, before leaning in and sinisterly whispering, "Inseparable, in fact,"  
". . . Meg," Sam growled, his eyes narrowing. She leaned back, grinning lecherously back at him as he glared at her.  
"Ten outta ten, sugar," She replied, and Sam tried to ignore how freaking weird that sounded in Dean's voice. "You know, having sampled both Winchester brothers – I'd say I prefer you. I think it's cause you're taller,"  
"Wow, lucky me," Sam quipped sarcastically, earning himself a forceful blow to the back of his head. He gritted his teeth against the pain.  
"Doesn't matter now, though – Dean's mine for til I say so. And it's not as if I'm allowed to hurt you anymore. Pity," She considered out loud, and Sam grimaced. While he was happy he was out of bounds, he had to remember why that was.

He renewed his struggle as they dragged him into the store room of the mini mart. The floor was strewn with the corpses of the real employees, and standing in the centre was a man with his back to them.

"I'm so glad the meet and greet is over. I was starting to get a little bored," The man confessed, turning around and smiling at Sam, showing off his yellow eyes,"Hello, Sam,"

_Azazel. _


	8. VIII

**_AN: _**_Okay, this really WILL be one of the last posts before I go on a little hiatus for my exams. The earliest I'll be posting the concluding couple of chapters for this fic with be from June 20th onwards. Please don't think I've abandoned you all! _

_So, this is setting the stage for the final confrontation. Enjoy! _

* * *

Ruby and Meg let go of him, and went to guard the door they'd entered through. He didn't like that they were behind him, so he couldn't see what they were doing – but he didn't have a choice right now.  
"Huh. New meat-suits all around, is it?" Sam spat, indicating the body of the yellow-eyed demon.  
"Quite right, too. I tend to wear them out very quickly. But, ah – I feel bad for ya, Sammy. You couldn't get a new body, too. Regrettable . . . But not worth wasting hundreds of years for down in Hell. You'll do in hybrid form for what we've got planned,"  
"What's that then? Couple of mini-mart massacres?" Sam asked sarcastically.

The demon laughed heartily, throwing his head back; Sam could smell the sulphur from where he stood, and grimaced at the familiar tang in the air.

"That' the spirit, my boy. Joking about murder," Azazel pointed out. Sam cursed himself.  
"I wasn't-"  
"It's not important," The demon replied, suddenly very serious. Sam's mouth shut, ready to listen to Azazel monologue about his evil plans. He wanted so badly to glance over his shoulder to make sure Meg wasn't damaging his brother's body, but he had to save face. His bravado was all he had in this situation. There's no way he could outmatch them with his powers – not without _loads_ more practise.

"What I wanted, my boy, was a soldier. And you're it. You're the one. My son, my soldier – the winner. You killed the others-"  
"-I only killed Jake-"He protested, but was ignored.  
"And now you're gonna open a devil's gate for me,"  
"Excuse me?" Sam asked quietly, not quite understanding. The demon's face flickered into a smile again.  
"A door to Hell, Sammy. And you're going to walk right into it, where you'll take your place as the leader of my demon army. Questions?" Azazel asserted, and raised an eyebrow, challenging the youngest Winchester to defy him.

Sam gulped, his hands screwing up into fists at his side, and his arm muscles tensing and shaking with rage. His brow remained a hard line, and he tried not to grind his teeth to dust.  
"Listen to me, you son of a bitch," He said, trying to contain his utter rage and frustration. "If you think for one damn minute that I'm going to help you in any way-"

Azazel simply tutted, cutting him off and looking over his shoulder. Sam cautiously glanced around. Meg waved Dean's hand at him. Sam realised it was covered in blood . . . Ruby was holding a pair of pliers. Five of Dean's fingernails were missing – all from Dean's left hand.  
"Look, Sammy! We match!" Meg enthused, showing off Dean's bloody hand and pointing at his own bandaged one.

Sam's breath caught in his throat at the site of his brother's blood – how could he not have heard them do that? He imagined Dean screaming inside his own head, unable to stop the demons from torturing him, and paled.

"Oh, it's not _such _a stretch of the imagination, Sam," Azazel continued, ignoring the other demons for now. "You're smart, and your human Daddy raised you well – you'll be the perfect general. And besides . . . I'd hate to let my other children loose on your brother. I told them not to harm him, but they just couldn't _help_ themselves, it seems. You see . . . That's them being _restrained_," Azazel explained. Meg and Ruby actually high-fived, printing Dean's blood onto both of their hands. "Just imagine the damage they could do if I decided to unleash them," The yellow-eyed demon said, somewhat superfluously, as Sam's brain was already plagued by unstoppable images of demons torturing Dean in a variety of hideous ways.

Sam felt himself go green. He wanted so badly to take off his jacket and wrap Dean's hand in it, and to comfort his brother, but it was unlikely Dean was still awake in there, after having been forced to go through all that pain silently.

"Here's the plan, son," Azazel said, suddenly extremely close to Sam, who recoiled somewhat. "You're going to join me in Wyoming, at these coordinates, in a day's time," The demon instructed, grabbing Sam's shaking hand and writing coordinates onto it with a black marker he produced seemingly from thin air, for all the attention Sam was paying to it. He was too busy staring at his tormentor's deadly yellow eyes. "You won't bring anyone. You'll await further instruction when you get there," He finished.

Sam's nostrils flared, and he glanced over at Dean again.  
"What about Dean?" He asked coldly.  
"Never mind him. He's not your real brother. See, Meg – she's my daughter. She's more of a sibling to you than he'll ever be-"  
"Don't start up with that crap again. What happens to Dean in all this?" Sam asks with a steely expression.  
"We're keeping him in the interim. You know – for insurance purposes," Azazel purred.  
"And . . ." Sam sighed, screwing his eyes shut and wiping his face with his hand. He felt so god-damned defeated; crushed, in the face of Dean's suffering. "And what about when . . . When _it's _done?"

The demon's smile grew impossibly wider at the small victory he'd won by getting Sam to accept that he might have to cooperate.  
"He can go. He'll be free to hunt you – ah, won't that be a treat?" The horrified look Sam's face contorted itself into at that thought was something he wasn't able to prevent. Luckily, the demon didn't labour the point on this occasion. "But really," It continued, "I don't care about him – he's not much of a threat. A bit of a damsel in distress, really – what with your dad's deal to save his life, and you sacrificing everything you believe in just so he can be safe-"  
"Enough," Sam interrupted, his voice close to cracking with emotion.  
"As you like," The demon said, and clicked both fingers. Sam spun around, and noticed that both Ruby and Meg – along with his brother's body – had disappeared, without a trace. Strangely enough, he'd known they were gone even before he'd looked: just like he'd somehow sensed something odd about Ruby before he knew it was her, he'd sensed that the other two demons were gone before he saw it.

"Oh, and before I go – the dress-code for a general of Hell is, well . . . Shall we say smart-casual?" Azazel suggested with a wicked grin, and dematerialised, leaving hollow laughter echoing around the room.

Sam sunk to the floor, crouching down and screwing his eyes shut. He choked slightly, utterly revolted at what he'd agreed to do; how easily he'd let Dean get taken, _possessed _– oh, God, to be possessed by Meg had been so bad, so _painful_, how could he have just-?!

He heard sirens in the distance. It was just like the demon to cause him even more trouble by leaving him with a load of dead bodies to explain. He couldn't stay here anymore – he just had to pull himself together, _stop _his eyes from watering like he was some kind of baby, and work out a plan that didn't involve opening a gate to Hell and joining all the hell-spawn in some kind of demonic revolution . . . _'Just_'.

Rushing out of the back door, he had the forethought to grab a bottle of whiskey from one of the storage shelves as he went, and made a quick getaway.

* * *

"I think this might be one of the dumbest things I've ever done," Sam whispered into his hands, as they cupped his face, covering his eyes.

He wasn't just talking about the mind-numbingly stupid action of making inroads into agreeing to lead an army of demons: he was talking about sitting in a neon-light-spangled church, open 24 hours, and tacky as hell.

". . . I, I just-" He tried to begin, but then as he dragged his hands away from his face and looked up at the idol of Jesus on the cross in front of the row of pews (well, velvet-covered pews) he sat on, he was distracted by the thought that this was the most kitsch model of the son of God he'd ever seen.

"I know you're probably not my biggest fan. Hell, I'm p-part – part demon, basically," He managed, slurring his speech slightly. "I shouldn't even be here, but I thought – it's Vegas, right? So, uh – even a freak like me can set foot in a church in a place so full of sin,"

He laughed for a moment, but it faded away quickly, leaving his eyes watering and his breath coming short for a totally different reason. The room fell silent, but for his shaky breathing.

". . . I don't know what to do. I don't wanna pull the pin on this thing," He admitted, closing his eyes so he didn't have to look at the cheery, blue-eyed, fairy-light spangled model. ". . . I know he said I'm one of his children, but, I – does that mean I'm not one of yours anymore?" Sam asked, opening his eyes but looking at the floor.

He took another swig of the whiskey he'd snuck into the church, past the bored-looking receptionist – _what kind of church has a receptionist at 5 in the morning but no Pastor, Father-?_

No one to talk to. No one would believe him, anyway. He wasn't allowed to bring anyone with him to the graveyard – he knew that if he did, he'd be signing their death warrants.

"I'm . . . Not sure I believe in you anymore," He confessed, looking right up at the ceiling. It was made up of black and white tiles, like the floor of a fifties-style diner, but without the ketchup stains. There were plenty of odd stains on the ceiling, though. Just stains. Not God. He looked back at his hands.

"It's just . . . It's been a lot to . . . To cope with, and I don't think I can – I don't think I'm-" He sighed, and collected his thoughts; he was glad there was no one around the witness this virtual existential breakdown. "Not that Dean is . . . _Gone_. For now – now he's not here to, to tell me, to – to help, I don't know what to do," He repeated, completely torn. "So . . . Uh, I don't know how to say this without sounding like – without . . ."He sighed, and scraped his right hand down his face. He cleared his throat, and tried one last time:  
"So, if you could just, give me some sort of sign? Something to let me know what to do? . . . Or even that you're there? . . . I don't know if I can, can – if I'll be able to carry on without _someone _in my corner,"

His injured hand throbbed, making its presence known. He cursed, and looked down at it with disgust. The only reason it got so hurt was because of the damned blood. If he wasn't such a _freak_-

He tugged back the bandage on the hand, half angry and half curious about what it would look like: before, it had gone through an interesting range of black, yellow, and dark red – just like the eyes of demons, his booze-clouded brain supplied unhelpfully. He snorted at that thought, as he revealed-

- Nothing. There was nothing there.

He stared at the unblemished flesh of his hand, and stood up jerkily in shock. The whiskey fell to the floor, rolling away slowly.

"I-" Sam breathed, the syllable leaking out spontaneously, without real meaning. He looked up at the cheerful idol of Jesus, hugging a lamb, and half-frowned, even as he smiled.

Was this divine intervention? Sure, he needed someone to help him – but was this the work of God? Was He in Sam's corner?

No. That was when he realised with widening eyes that _God _didn't do this. _I did this . . ._ _I healed just fine, all on my own, and much quicker than if I was a normal human. Alright, I might be a freak, but at least there are _some _upsides. I'm stronger now . . . And I don't need protection – not from Dean, and not from _Him_. I'm strong enough to do this on my own._

Sam realised that he would save his brother, this time. It was only fair, after all the suffering Dean had gone through in the past few months, looking for him; hoping to save him. He only hoped that he'd have more success at saving Dean from Hell's infernal designs than his brother had done with him.

He shook his head in amazement, flexing the new flesh under the multi-coloured flashing lights. They hurt his tired, addled mind, but they were the only light he saw in the church – no Holy light or Pentecostal fire. Just the tacky yet brilliant lights of Vegas.

He would find his way to his brother, and he would set him free. By himself – this blood was a curse, yes, but it at least had functionality. He could use it _against_ Azazel, instead of _for_ him. It was probably wrong to use them at all, and Dean wouldn't want him to – but he had to do everything he could to save his brother, even if it meant sacrificing his approval.

He walked down the aisle, out of the room; as he reached the threshold of the door, he half-smiled over his shoulder, and muttered a consolatory: "Thanks, anyway,"


	9. IX

_**AN: **__Thank you all SO MUCH for being so patient! You're all the greatest! My exams are now over, and my summer is free to write whenever I want, and to update more frequently. And now, for some action: as promised, your 20th June update. Enjoy!_

* * *

He could have teleported to Wyoming, and been there in a matter of seconds. But it just didn't feel right to leave the Impala behind.

Actually, none of this felt _right_. It made him feel queasy to pack up his brother's stuff so neatly, so respectfully, into his duffel, when he knew Dean would have crumpled it all up and shoved it in with no care at all. It made the muscles in his jaw jump to throw both of their things in the back seat, and then take Dean's place on the driver's side, the space on the bench to his right empty.

It made him want to scream that if he wanted to make good time, he'd have to teleport all this stuff at least part-way there. He had hours to get from Nevada to Wyoming; he couldn't exactly take his sweet time, driving through the desert and crossing state lines, admiring the scenery and thinking of all the goofy things Dean would say if he were driving, or picking up all the crappy food that Dean really loved (that he secretly craved, too).

He was out of time, and alone. He was strong enough to get through this alive, but he didn't know if he'd make it with his humanity – what was left of it – intact. If he did have to walk into Hell, he was brokering that deal with the condition that Dean be set free; that he would be allowed to take the Impala, and carry on their father's legacy. It was in his blood, after all.

And Hell was in Sam's.

Transporting the whole car actually wasn't as difficult as he first expected. Strange, how becoming aware of his demon blood had made him wary and scared at first; had made him conscious of every little thing he did, how he behaved, and every time he used his powers. But now . . . He had to admit, he was growing into them. It didn't mean he was growing to like them, but he certainly wasn't going to waste the opportunity to use them to go save Dean.

He emerged on some dusty back-road not too far from the warehouse where the unspeakable _it _had happened. Again, he tried not to think of the horrible things that happened there, that they'd made him incapable of remembering. He wondered again why that was – perhaps, if he didn't remember how powerful they'd made him, he wouldn't be as much of a threat. He thought wistfully, as he pulled onto the main road, that they'd been right: his first few hours with no memory of the last few months had been confusing and exhausting; he definitely hadn't been all that threatening then.

But now they had Dean. If ever there was a time he was at his most threatening, it was right now. His fingers tightened subconsciously on the steering wheel, as so often he'd seen Dean's do when Sam broached a difficult topic, such as Dad, or the yellow-eyed demon, or – _heaven forbid _– their emotions.

Huh. Maybe that would have made Sam laugh ordinarily. It didn't right now. He had this cold, single-minded sense of purpose that even he recognised as dangerous, but he didn't care. He couldn't afford to be emotional or unfocussed when his brother's life was on the line. Not when Dean had tried so hard to get him back. It was only fair.

He jumped when his cell phone rang.

He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, before bringing it to his ear.  
"It's Sam," He gritted out in a low voice, answering it as he drove on the dusty road. It was still early in the day; a Monday, just like any other day. There were a few cars around, but not that many: it didn't seem like there were many offices or schools nearby. Maybe a motel, if he was lucky.

". . . Sam?" Bobby asked, his voice laden with concern. "Boy – I got wind of some demonic omens round your neck of the woods," He told his surrogate son, getting straight to the point.  
"Yeah," Sam replied shortly. There was a long silence.  
"What happened, boy?" Bobby asked kindly, trying to coax Sam out of his hardened shell.  
". . . They t-" He cleared his throat, trying to rid his voice of any trace of weakness, "They took Dean. Meg. She possessed him,"  
"God dammit boy," Bobby muttered, and Sam heard him take a deep breath.  
"Don't worry. I'm going to fix it," Sam assured him in a monotone; he was very deliberate with his words, so that Bobby would know he meat what he said. _He _would fix it.  
"Not on your own you're not,"  
"It's not safe, Bobby,"  
"What am I, chopped liver?" The older man asked, incredulously, "Look, son, I've been hunting for much longer than you have-"  
"It's not safe. For hunters," Sam clarified once more.  
". . . You mean, _for humans_," Bobby deciphered. Sam huffed out a sigh, and switched the phone between his hands, so that his left arm could hold it, while it rested on the open windowsill. He didn't say anything, though.  
"Son. The fact you're worried for me proves that you're not like them. You ain't hellspawn, kid. You never have been, and you never will be,"  
". . . I have to go," Sam replied quickly and quietly, and disconnected the call.

Truthfully, he hadn't wanted to argue that point with Bobby. When he'd seen his unbroken skin in that church, he'd known that he'd be okay – Hell or no, he'd survive – but it had only emphasised the fact that Dean, or Bobby, or any _normal _person who chose to help him, was completely vulnerable to the evil coercing him.

He didn't want to see anyone else get hurt because of him. Not after Dean, and Jake, and Ava, and Andy, and his Dad, and . . . And Mom.

He realised he hadn't even held a hand gun in several months. Shotguns were less of an issue – point and blow something to pieces – but at long range . . . Perhaps he would practise before he went to get Dean back this evening. It wouldn't hurt to practise the earthly skills as well as the demon ones.

It disgusted him that the thought of using human weapons hadn't even crossed his mind until now. Not since Dean left, anyway. Not since they'd taken him.

The anger, the hatred . . . It opened up his mind to use his powers more. He guessed it made sense – if you think like a demon, you're more likely to act like one. While his anger was important – a fire in his belly – he knew he shouldn't let it consume him.

But, right now, that was what he was letting it do. And he didn't even care.

He would get Dean back. He would get him back, at any cost. Because they were brothers.

And because he'd do the same for Sam.

* * *

This was it. Quarter to midnight; exactly a day's time from when he'd last seen Dean. He stood in front of an abandoned iron railway, snaking its way through the long grass, long since abandoned.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Sammy?"

Sam jumped at the sudden noise, and the feeling of an arm slung over his neck in a mock-friendly gesture. He turned to face his assailant – _Dean_. No – Meg.

He shoved her off, scowling at her. "What do you mean?" He asked in a low, threatening voice.  
"What, you think we can get across the iron? It's a giant devil's trap, dumbass. Never seen a devil's gate before?"

Sam frowned, opening his mouth: "I-"  
"Thought not. Maybe your Daddy was afraid that if you went near one, the urge to open it and let your real family out would be too much,"  
"Shut your damned mouth," Sam growled, furious that she'd brought up his Dad _and _referred to demons as his real family in one breath. Using _Dean's _mouth, no less.

Next to him, the iron rails began to shake, vibrating and twisting on their own. Meg's smartass comeback was silenced, as she looked down at the rusted metal.

Sam glanced down at it, vaguely aware that it was his fault that the thing was about to break – just like she wanted – but not caring anymore. He just wanted it over with. He concentrated hard, reaching out to a dormant, vicious part of his mind that he usually tried his best to ignore.

Holding out a palm towards the iron, he closed his eyes. Within seconds, he could hear the sound of ancient metal sizzling and wrenching apart.

He knew it was too late to be saved now.

Meg stepped lightly through the sizeable gap he'd made in the railing, grinning with glee as he opened his eyes, and looked solemnly at the damage.  
"Knew you had it in ya, Sammy-"  
"Let's just get this over with,"  
". . . Whatever your say, little bro,"

Sam's face contorted into one of disgust as Dean's smiling face turned away from him. He followed the thing inside his brother wordlessly for a few minutes, until they reached the graveyard.

"Well?" What now?" Sam asked, eager to get Dean the Hell out of here.

Dean turned slowly to face him, smile splitting his face now, and his gradually raised his gaze to the sky.

He looked up: it was a cloudless night, but he realised he couldn't see any stars.  
"_They're here_," Meg said in a sing-song voice.

Sure enough, they landed, one-by-one: some bolting off to find vessel, and a few more advanced ones landing and appearing with their vessels still intact. Whatever the case, there were many of them: tens, definitely. Maybe a hundred, soon, if the rate they kept coming at stayed the same. They trickled in, forming a crowd around Sam and Meg, all craning to get a look. He could hear one say that he wished he'd picked a taller meat-suit so he could see better.

They were laughing. They were jeering. Someone of them were even chanting, and clapping. He thought he heard one crying with joy. He couldn't see them all. The atmosphere they created around him was stifling; he concentrated hard so he would keep on breathing, and wouldn't react.

He could have laughed at how dumb he was being: how he was obviously playing right into their hands. They'd all gathered, like this was another one of their damn rituals; like it was a more important one, that they'd all do anything to witness.

Finally, the most important of them joined their ranks: the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Sam could see gleaming, pus-coloured eyes even from within the throng. They sought him out, focussing in on him like they were incapable of seeing anything else.

Suddenly, they all fell silent: not a single sound was heard from the crowd, even as more of them filtered in from their quest to find hosts.

"Sammy," Azazel whispered, stepping out from the crowd. They whispered excitedly, and a few even whooped like they were at a fucking football game. ". . . You came,"

A few laughs. A few cheers.

"Didn't have much choice, did I?" Sam growled, referring to Azazel's ultimatum regarding Dean's life. There were a few low hoots.  
"I know. I mean, after all . . . It is in your _blood_," Much mocking laughter.  
"Enough with the corny jokes. I have terms you're going to agree to,"  
"Oh?" The demon asked, surprised. He turned to face the crowd, a look of shock on his face, openly making fun of Sam.  
"Yeah. First of all, you're gonna let Dean go. Now," He demanded.  
"Oh am I now?"  
"If you want me to comply, then yeah," Sam replied, with a confidence he didn't really have.  
"Let's see what Dean has to say about that – shall we?"

Meg stepped forward, and in a second, her mocking smile turned into something more stonily determined, yet frightened behind the eyes.  
Then, a murmur: "Sammy?"  
"Dean?!" Sam countered enthusiastically, lunging forward to grab at his brother's shoulders; holding him up and checking with wild worried eyes over his brother's face and body for injury (other than his fingernails, which had stopped bleeding but looked deadly sore and weren't dressed).

"Are you hurt?"  
"Just my hand," Dean gritted out," Look, Sammy – whatever it is they want from you, _do not_ do it,"  
"Shut up Dean!" Sam hissed, tears forming at the corners of his eyes with his grief. He blinked them away rapidly, pushing down his emotions once again. He knew his time with Dean was extremely limited, and he wanted to apologise. Plus, he didn't want to get caught crying in front of these demons – having them treat his life like one big stage show was bad enough already, without adding melodrama to it.  
"No, Sammy! This is bigger than you think – it's – it's huge. I know that much. I don't know how, but . . . Look, just let them have me. I'm not worth it,"  
"You are to me!" Sam insisted, without even thinking.

Suddenly, there was a disturbance from beside them: the crowd opened up to reveal two demons dragging a body between them. No, not a body – he was alive, though his face was obscured by a trucker cap at a jaunty angle.

"Bobby?" Sam and Dean asked at the same time.  
"Found this one a mile out, heading this way," One of the demons explained with hatred, "Thought he could crash the party,"

"Bobby, how did you-"  
"Wasn't hard to figure it out after I traced your cell phone, idjit," Bobby replied fondly, shrugging off his demon captors and standing on his own. He seemed relatively unharmed, despite a trickle of blood flowing steadily from his lip.  
"You came alone?" Dean asked, confused.  
". . . I had to," Bobby answered, glaring at Yellow-Eyes with unbridled hatred. "Roadhouse is gone. Burned down. And hunters all over the country are getting' picked off, one by one,"

"Ah, yes – that'll be our doing," Ruby chimed in – Sam hadn't even seen her arrive.  
"Orders to all my children: take out all the hunters in the continental US, until Sammy opens the gate. Anyone left after that is free to go," Azazel clarified.

". . . I haven't been able to contact Ellen, or Ash,"  
"Bobby, are-"

"Say, don't you all think there are one too many hunters at this party?" Azazel interrupted, as if it were just occurring to him at that moment, talking to the demon hoard. A smile that made the three hunters feel queasy spread over his face, as he turned back to Sam and said, "Pick _one_,"

"W-what?" Sam asked, feeling his ever-so-carefully repressed emotions threaten to come back with a vengeance once more. As if talking to Dean hadn't been bad enough on that front.

"Pick one – we'll let him go. The other one . . . Well, he'll be coming with us," He crowed with a toothy smile.  
"What if I refuse?" Sam asked, trying to school his facial expression and tone of voice.  
"I'll kill them both on the spot,"

Sam's breath hitched, and he looked Dean in the eye: he seemed even more horrified than Sam did, if that was even possible. The demons around them began shouting, either Dean's name or Bobby's, adding their two cents to Sam's choice.

"Let Bobby go, Sam," Dean demanded over the ruckus.  
"Dean!" Sam and Bobby admonished simultaneously.  
"You gotta pick one of us, Sammy. Pick me – I'm already possessed, right? Got nothing to lose,"  
"Don't listen to that damn fool, Sam! Take it from an old man, you'd be better off letting Dean go. I've lived my life. I'm really the one with nothing left to lose, son," Bobby explained extraordinarily calmly.  
"Sam, please! I've got your back – I'll watch out for you, little brother. I can't lose you – I don't know what I'd do if-" Dean choked off, his eyes slightly unfocussed. Sam could tell he was fighting Meg again; maybe she was even whispering lies and vitriol in his ear about how worthless he was, and how he'd inevitably let his brother down. It almost broke Sam's heart to remember her doing the exact same thing to him months ago.

A single tear slipped from Dean's eye, and he was unable to go on.

Sam's expression turned from anguished to outright panic-stricken when the demon began counting down.

"5 . . . 4 . . ."

The crowd began counting along with him.

"3 . . . 2 . . . "  
"Bobby!" He blurted.

A couple of hoots from the crowd, followed by complete silence.  
"Let Bobby go,"  
"Sam, no!" Bobby whispered, looking absolutely horrified. He was about to lose both of his boys.  
"You can rally the hunters that are left," The demon spectators laughed heartily at that, but he carried on anyway, not caring if anyone except Bobby heard him. "You can fight this, if I fail, Bobby. I'll try, but . . . It isn't gonna end well. So, just – do what you can?"  
". . . I – I will do, boy," Bobby replied, looking infinitely older and more weather-beaten than ever with the weight of the loss he was about to experience baring down on him.  
"See ya around, Bobby,"

His adopted father nodded mutely, before being dragged away by demons, as abruptly as he'd been presented to the younger Winchester.

Wondering why Dean hadn't said goodbye, he turned back to his brother, just in time to see his sly smile and hear his comment:  
"Aww, wasn't that sweet,"  
"I swear to God, Meg, if you weren't in my brother-" He spat, frustrated that she'd inevitably won her power struggle with Dean.  
"Yeah, whatever. Jeez, so wrathful!"  
"Now, now, children – we've got work to do," Azazel chided lightly, making Meg nod and smile wildly. It was an ugly, unnatural expression on Dean's face. Sam thought idly that he hadn't seen his brother smile this much since their Dad's death. He realised how fucked up it was that a demon smiled more than Dean did, for whatever purpose.

Strangely enough, the Azazel produced the Colt from his waistband.  
"Voila. Your key to the Devil's Gate," The demon told him, indicating the giant set of rune-inscribed stone doors across the graveyard. He held it out for Sam to take, which he did cautiously.

He immediately held it up to Azazel, taking aim.  
"What, think I couldn't divert the bullet? It'd be such a shame if it hit poor Deano," The demon remarked, shaking his head in fake pity.  
Sam glanced at Meg, who used his brother's face to make a fake-upset expression. Sam felt the overwhelming need to throw up, as he realised what he had to do.

He had to open the gate.

He slowly turned to the doors, and strode up to them hesitantly.  
"Will you let Dean go?" He asked, turning back just as he was about to insert the key.  
"I think you've used up your 'save a loved one' allowance for today, don't you think?" Ruby asked sarcastically. The crowd laughed like they were watching a fucking pantomime. Sam remembered that, to them, this probably was just that: a farce, a play; a game for their entertainment.

He let out a shaking breath, as raised the gun once more. He would have to save Dean one way or another. He would have to figure it out – just like he'd have to figure out how to _not_ to set a load of demons free from Hell, and how to kill Azazel before escaping from the pit in a daring adventure worthy of Indiana Jones. He gulped, as he heard the crowd, now roaring, raise the pitch and volume of their yelling with every inch closer the key got to the lock.

Then, just like that, the gun was in the slot.

He twisted it. There were a series of clunking noises that made him feel sick to his stomach; steady clicks and whirrs, like the footsteps of his executioner.

The doors opened, revealing an all-consuming darkness; a gaping, yawning chasm of black, that reached out to him, and grasped his soul tightly. But, strangely and horrifyingly enough, his blood sang to it, yearning for it; urging him forward, until he stepped into it.

Sam Winchester led an army of a hundred demons, and his brother, into Hell.


	10. X

_**AN: **__Here's your update! A fun fact about this chapter is that, aside from this note, it is exactly 3000 words long. You can check if you want. Wow, what a time to be alive where authors can inadvertently write a round number of words!_

_Anyway. Enjoy your update! Let me know what you think, because things are getting serious now - and they're only going to get more serious as we head for the endgame. Thanks, and enjoy my interpretation of Hell! _

* * *

Laughter. Very far away.

It was like they were being grabbed bodily and sucked down, further and further, deeper and deeper into the ground, until Sam wasn't sure the Earth could even be so deep. Part-way down, they must've crossed into another dimension.

It was strange to be able to think these things when his body was feeling intangible and breathless, like he'd left it upstairs and only his soul was falling forever downwards. It was strangely silent, as if they were going too fast for them to be able to hear anything; not even the wind whipping at their ears, nor their own beating hearts. Except . . . The laughter. A million miles away, but coming closer.

He understood, now, why demons were black smoke: to be tossed about like this forever was surely to become weightless, and hopeless, and twisted. He could only imagine that the countless trips up and down would be enough to rip away any semblance of a body or personal form from you eventually.

Then, they landed. And, even though the falling had left him with a sense of inertia and light-headedness, he couldn't help but feel the full severity of the situation right away. He thought the falling was bad enough. Landing was much worse.

He cast his gaze around, and despaired. Fuck Dante. This was real, and it was happening to him. He couldn't quite believe it still. This was real life. Or, well . . . Something like life, anyway.

_This is fucking insanity. _

There was a set of ornate iron gates, inscribed with tiny lettering in a language he supposed was Latin. They grew upwards until he couldn't see the top of them, as if they reached the ground of the Earth way, way above. He supposed that was so no one could ever get in without permission . . . Or get out.

On the main curling, weaving banner across the gate, there was an age-old inscription. He could have laughed – they'd actually gotten something right, in the storybooks and the lore. Of course, there were many more lines to the warning than just this one, but they were much less famous. He supposed they were what the other smaller Latin inscriptions said. But the main message was clear:  
_Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here_.

He could see through several holes in the vine-like, barbed iron gates, to the corridors that lay beyond. They were made up of stone and iron bars; dripping noises sounding from all around, the result of blood slopping down from entrails hanging from the ceiling. Either side of the corridor were lines of cells, each with wasting, grey hands reaching desperately out from between the bars for something, _anything_, to save them. Or perhaps kill them. He couldn't say for sure.

When he looked behind himself, Sam saw the doors they'd entered through, as if they hadn't been subject to a seemingly eternal fall to get there. There were many other sets of doors on either side of it, too: he supposed they were for other demons coming from other devil's gates. Or perhaps they were doors from life to the afterlife – after all, some of them were just wooden doors, like you'd see in someone's house, or in a hospital. _This must be where the souls of the wicked come when they die. _

He drew his eyes away from the doors that gave way to that chilling thought, and focussed on how he was inevitably going to be able to get in. Strangely, to the left of the gates there was a booth with a filthy scratched glass window, illuminated by a queasy yellow light. It looked like the type of thing a parking attendant in a multi-story parking lot might sit in. It even had an area for sliding money across. Well, Sam _guessed _money. That probably wasn't the currency down here.

He glanced inside, and saw the figure of a man. He was totally normal in appearance: a sort of nine-to-five IT technician, who you'd find in any office around the world. He wore a red tie, a creased shirt, and was unshaven. He was flipping through a Chinese newspaper. Sam wondered fleetingly if they'd come to the right place.

When he looked back at the demon hoard, who were still arriving in twos and threes, they just smiled back at him. He noticed that, while they still retained the image of their vessels, they were partially see-through, and he could see their demonic souls squirming and writhing about in their bodies; they were translucent, with the insidious black smoke showing through their skin.

"Where's Dean? He demanded of a nearby demon, ignoring the strange feeling that it was _right _that he could see their souls through their flesh.  
"Oh, he'll be along," The demon, who he hadn't even seen before, answered him; the growing crowd sniggered. Sam ignored them, and turned back to the man in the booth curiously. He approached it, and cleared his throat nervously.

"I don't . . ." He began, not sure if he was supposed to say anything to the man in the booth to get himself let in. He coughed a little, and gazed at his feet in troubled thought.  
"Business?" Asked the man, without looking up. He licked his finger, and turned the page of his newspaper, which appeared to be written in Mandarin. Sam looked up, frowning down at the man and wondering, again, what to say.  
"Uh . . . I'm here with Azazel," Sam replied, though the answer was almost a question. He looked around for the demon in question, but he hadn't arrived yet.

Finally, the man sighed and looked up. When he saw Sam's face, his dark brown eyes widened, and he gasped.  
"Sam Winchester! Oh, I'm so sorry sir – I'm Charon, sir. So glad you could make it," He gushed, reaching under the glass to take Sam's hand. The younger Winchester took his hand cautiously, and shook it.  
"Charon, like – the river Styx?" Sam asked, searching his cloudy mind for a reference learned long ago. He wasn't big on Paradise Lost, but he remembered that much. He looked around, puzzled.  
"Well, yes – but, you see, we had to get rid of that a while back. Too many people trying to fit on one boat. I mean, I'm a ferryman, not a _miracle worker_,"  
"I thought you were supposed to take people to the afterlife, not just to Hell?" Sam asked, vaguely aware that it was weird to be having a chat with Hell's personal doorman.  
"Um – technically, yes. But they won't have me up there," He grumbled, pointing upwards and rolling his eyes. Sam smiled weakly, realising Heaven must have turned its nose up at a pagan figure getting _his_ grubby hands on _their_ pure souls. "And they needed someone to man the door down here. You know – turn away people who got here by accident, give people directions for when they get through. Monitor the immigration-emigration stats. Feed Cerberus. The admin stuff,"  
". . . Right," Sam replied, wondering where the giant many-headed dog was at that moment. Probably devouring the souls of the damned or something. He hoped he never found out.

When he finished casting his gaze around, searching for Dean as much as taking in the bleak, grey scenery, he saw that the guy was still looking at him with an expression something like awe. Sam frowned, and asked:  
"If you don't mind me saying, you seem a little . . . Star-struck," He observed carefully.  
"I know, I know – sorry, I don't mean to be rude," He said, blushing slightly, "We've waited for you. Like, for a really, _really_ long time. Sorry if I'm rambling. I just . . . Urgh, Sam Winchester!" He tried to explain, beaming. Sam wasn't really sure if he caught his drift. ". . . Is that everyone?" He asked amiably after a few seconds, trying to glance over Sam's shoulder.

"Uh . . . One sec," Sam looked around. Most of the demons he'd opened the door for had followed him in. He searched the crowd for one very important face – his brother.  
"Dean?" He called. His brother was shoved to the front, looking none-too-pleased with what was going on. Sam noticed immediately that, unlike every other living being there, Dean's soul wasn't black, or fidgeting around in his body: it was a soft glowing blue colour, centred at his heart. By the way Dean was looking at him, Sam's soul was doing the same thing.

"Trippy," His brother remarked typically.  
"Decided to let your brother go," Meg appeared beside Dean, appearing as a girl Sam supposed she'd last been possessing, before Dean. "After all, family have gotta stick together in Hell," She told them, quirking her eyebrow and shooting a mischievous look at Azazel, who emerged from the crowd.

"Well, what are you waiting for, you pathetic specimen? Open the door," Azazel hissed insultingly at Charon. He looked a little affronted, but wrote something down in characters Sam didn't understand, before reaching for a button on his desk, and pushing down on it. The gate swung open, and the stench that hit them was unbelievable. It stank of stale blood, and sweat, and fear. It smelled like death – no, it smelt worse than death: it smelt like despair. Total, unmitigated, unending despair.  
"Enjoy your stay. Sorry and stuff. Really good to meet you though, Sam!" The ferryman called to Sam jovially, as the Winchesters found themselves bundled through the gate.  
"And you," Sam called back.  
"Think you've pulled, Sammy," Dean joked.  
"Shut up – are you okay? Did she hurt you?" Sam fretted, giving his brother a onceover glance, as they were escorted – left, right, right, left, right, and so on, ad nauseum– through the corridors. Azazel walked in front of them, and they were flanked by Meg and Ruby, while the rest of the demons brought up the rear. Looking back, Sam could have sworn that their number had increased in size. Hell, if he had to guess, he'd say it'd doubled. He wondered what they'd come to watch; what they were expecting from him.  
"Nah, Sammy. I'm fine," He said stoically, although the look on his face betrayed how seriously freaked out he was. Sam followed his gaze, and saw him looking into each cell they passed. As they got further and further in, the souls they saw became more and more hideous to look at. They were twisted, and ugly, and obviously tortured. Sam tried to think that they were murderers, and rapists – they deserved it. But . . . Looking right into the faces of the people they passed, into their eyes . . . He found it hard to imagine that anyone deserved this.

Anyone but Azazel, who had threatened his brother. Anyone but Meg, who had possessed his brother, and Ruby, who had torn Dean's fingernails from his fingers. Anyone but someone who took pleasure in hurting his brother, he thought, though he knew it was wrong.

But he didn't care. All he had left to lose now was Dean – he'd lost Jess, he'd lost his Dad, he'd lost his normal, apple-pie life. He may have even lost his life by coming down here. But he still had Dean. And he'd fight for him.

"I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for now, Sam. Daddy's got some business to attend to," Azazel chirruped, and disappeared with a wave and a sinister smile.  
Seconds later, and Sam was still standing there, seething slightly. He glanced at Dean, thinking that now might be the best time to escape.  
"As _if_," Meg laughed, as if she'd read their minds. She punched Dean in the gut, causing him to bend over slightly, but not to cry out. Sam held onto his brother's arm as they kept walking, furious at the demons, but glad that Dean was still okay.

For now.

The lights flickered as he took a deep breath, and counted to ten, before falling into a steady walking rhythm as they passed through the seemingly-infinite halls.

They passed by one corridor that made Sam falter and frown. It was as if he were passing it in slow motion; it just grabbed his interest, and kept it much longer than it had any right to.

The corridor was just like one you'd see in a hospital or a public building of any sort. Hell, it could have been taken straight out of the DMV, unlike all of the other stone and iron paths they walked.

It had neon bar lights overhead, which flickered minutely. There was a brown door with a small double-glazed window, and a metal kickboard. It was padlocked shut, although Sam realised that all of these things were probably symbolic, rather than the only thing keeping whatever was in there, _whoever _was in there, locked away.

He felt cold, and even more hopeless than before. In fact, he was freezing – he shivered.  
"All in good time, Sammy," Ruby suddenly whispered in his ear. He hadn't even noticed that she'd come closer.  
"What do you mean?" He asked, looking her vessel in its dark brown eyes. The woman was pretty, but he could see Ruby's soul inside her, which was infinitely uglier, tainting her; using her, and trapping her in her own skin. He wondered if the vessels surrounding him were aware they were in Hell. He wondered if they were screaming and crying, begging to leave, just like the people in the cells that lined ever wall besides the eerie, incongruous cold corridor they'd just passed. They were prisoners, too. But in their own minds, not in a cell for eternity. He couldn't decide which was worse.

She didn't reply, just turned her head forward again, looking like she could barely contain her laughter at some private joke.  
"What's back there?" He asked again.  
"Not what . . . Who. You'll find out one day," She replied cryptically.

He heard a few of the demons in the immediate vicinity who'd heard her explanation burst into laughter. The sound echoed around, repeating and parodying itself, until it was painful to listen to. Sam clenched his fists, and tried to calm down. He knew he was being mocked, and he didn't like it, obviously. Up ahead, one of the mine-shaft style caged light bulbs that illuminated them began to shake, and two seconds later, burst violently.

The Winchesters recoiled instinctively from the glass, before slowly unfurling, and looking at each other.  
"Did you . . .?" Dean asked his brother. Sam shrugged warily, attempting to come across as nonchalant and failing.  
"Of course he did, Dean-o. We all get more powerful inside the mothership. I bet you didn't even realise you were doing anything, did you Sammy?" Ruby asked, putting a hand on his arm.

Without thinking, he threw an arm out towards her, and she was thrown down the corridor with such a force that when she eventually hit the upcoming wall, it cracked slightly. She fell down, slumping onto the floor for the briefest of moments before getting up, her eyes black with her rage.  
"Might not be able to hurt _you_, but the boss brought _him _along for a reason," She spat.

She reached out, clenching her fist. Immediately Dean gasped, clutching his head; his eyes were screwed shut in pain.  
"Dean!" Sam cried, leaning down and putting one hand on his brother's chest, and the other around his shoulders, protectively curling around his shoulders like Dean had done for him countless times growing up. The position felt alien, and it upset Sam that maybe, just maybe, Dean wasn't as unbreakable as he'd always thought. Just because he'd bounced back after they'd been hit by that semi-truck didn't mean that he'd always recover from everything. Not without a sold soul, he was realising once again, as blood trickled from Dean's nose.

"Stop it! Please!" He cried. But she didn't stop, her face twisting with malice and enjoyment. Dean grunted, blood falling from his nose and coating his lips - for a wild moment, Sam wondered what happened if a Heaven-bound soul died in Hell.

Because Dean was gonna get to Heaven if he died, no doubt about it. But he wasn't going to die. Sam had to make sure of it, and that's why the next words out of his mouth were:  
"I command you to stop hurting him,"

Ruby's hand stilled, and she unclenched her fist, her eyes wide. Her arms fell limply to her side, and she looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place: somewhere between awe, surprise, and a dawning understanding. He wondered what there was to understand about him that he didn't already know about himself.

"This way," She said eventually, in a voice that was almost a whisper. After he'd made sure Dean was okay and cleaned up (and been shoved away by his brother with a comment of 'god damned mother hen' for his trouble), they continued onwards, taking another left turn.

After another couple of minutes, they reached a set of broad, tall bronze double doors that were completely incongruous compared with the disgusting filth of the corridors they'd been travelling through (aside from that one bland, cold corridor). Clearly whoever designed this place spared no expense . . . Not that it made sense that someone would have to pay for Hell's furnishings. Or design Hell in the first place.

"This is it, Sammy! Your throne awaits," Meg whispered excitedly, with a quirk of her eyebrow that it quickly became clear to Sam was a habit she'd picked up from her new vessel.  
". . . Wait, my what-?" Sam barely had time to ask before the doors were thrown open, and all was revealed: a huge hall, lined with fire on each side, with a bronze throne at the end.

There was a moment of awed silence, with the demon hoard practically thrumming with excitement, and Sam and Dean gaping at the overly-extravagant room.  
Dean was the first to sarcastically comment on the chamber's appearance:  
"It's a bit low key, isn't it?"


	11. XI

_**AN:**__ I know I just did an update, but I finished this last night and I just don't think it would be fair to make you wait, especially after that iant hiatus for my exams. _

_This is it! The final chapter. Let me know what you think! (Prepare for a bumpy ride, folks)_

* * *

Echoes of excited whispers reverberated around the giant chamber, whose ceilings were so high that they weren't visible; they were obscured by demons without vessels, circling and floating above the heads of the room's occupants like wind-whipped kites. Sam would have thought the room was awash with flames, if he didn't know better: while the room was lined with fires on either side, they weren't large enough to create that much smoke.

The brothers were ushered along the centre of the room, with demons crowded on either side of their path; more appeared by the second, watching and cheering; some groaned, in pain and anguish, unable to make any happy sound at all. However, they all did what they could to express their surprise that _yes, Sam Winchester is here, he's finally here. _

The clink of chains and the roar of scream-hoarse victims, tortured on the racks of Hell for hundreds of years without quite becoming demons yet, made it difficult to hear, although Sam and Dean both managed to hear the wheedling, sinister voice of the demon that had tormented them since their infancy: they looked up as they approached up the steps to the bronze throne, and saw the yellow-eyed demon nearing:

"Sam! You made it. So prompt. That imposter Daddy of yours taught you well,"

Sam sneered at the demon by means of a response; Dean made to attack him, but Sam caught his shoulder just in time with a quick whisper of, "Don't,"

The demon smirked at the Winchesters, before turning to the crowd.  
"Brothers! Sisters! Sons and daughters!" He addressed them, the theatricality making the brothers roll their eyes. "It's with a heavy heart that I speak to you right now, about to relinquish power – but it's all for a cause I know is _very _dear to all of you.  
"You must have all felt the change: the blood magic, the opening of a devil's gate – you all know what this means. The time has come, my friends. The change we've awaited for centuries has happened: we're finally all going to be freed, into an Earth that we can take for our own!" The cheering of the crowd reached a crescendo, as Sam and Dean cast wary looks at one another: they didn't like at all where this speech was going. He continued, "It will be ripe for the taking, for us to do as we please with. On Earth, as it is in Hell!"

He stood absorbing the applause and feverish hysterical screaming – whether through joy, or through pain, the Winchesters couldn't tell – for a moment, holding his arms up. Sam's face twisted into one of horror, while Dean frowned.  
"Wait a second, pal," He interrupted, drawing the demon's attention. He looked surprised, but amused, by what the older hunter said next: "There's no way that gate's staying open forever – sorry to ruin your whole Nuremburg rally vibe, but you ain't coming out on top here. There are still plenty of good hunters up there, and I'll bet you dollars to donuts that they'll stop you in ten second flat,"

The demon turned slowly to Dean, as the sound died down in the hall.  
"Oh?" The demon asked, raising an eyebrow to challenge him. Dean didn't care though.  
"Yeah. And I ain't taking this lying down, either," He asserted.

The demon smiled slowly. Then, with a quick wink, Dean was choking, his hands flying to his throat, and blood pooling on his lips in seconds. Sam heard sickening cracks, and was reminded that this wasn't the first time the demon had injured Dean: last time, he'd have died if it wasn't for their Dad's sacrifice. This time, there was no safety net; Sam knew any demon would laugh off the offer of his tarnished, mongrel, part-demonic soul in a deal.  
"Dean!" He cried, grabbing his brother by the shoulders, and looping one of Dean's arms over his own. "Let him go! Now!" He demanded, but Azazel just smiled. Dean's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Sam's eyes widened in panic, as he crouched down, completely unsure about what to do. "Now!" He yelled, enraged.  
"Make me," The demon hissed, earning screams of approval from the previously-quiet crowd. Sam looked around, feeling helpless. He knew what they wanted, but should he do it? Should he kill Azazel, and prove all these demons right about him? Prove him a killer, inhuman?

But one look at Dean was all it took. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his face was deathly grey, and was his breathing laboured and painful. "Sammy . . ." He rasped, and that was it. His younger brother's decision was made; there was nothing he wouldn't do for Dean, even if he knew he was being goaded, or even tricked. He couldn't put anything in front of Dean's life – especially not for selfish reasons, like upholding his reputation as a soft-hearted human. He would d this 100 times over and not even flinch, if it meant Dean getting out of this alive.

Because Dean believed in him. Dean had searched for him; refused to believe he was dead, and even when he turned up contaminated with sulphurous blood, still believed that he was good, and kind, and still his Sammy. Dean had put everything on the line taking Sam in in his new, tainted state. Now it was time for Sam to return the favour.

He stood up, holding his palm toward the demon, and concentrated. He watched as Azazel's soul squired and writhed, as if its very movements were beckoning him; goading him into attacking. It took barely any of the strength Sam's rage and emotion had released inside of him before the floor began to shake slightly, and the fires flared up, causing those at the back of the crowd to scream and burn. Sam ignored any sound but Dean's quick breaths, and his grunts of pain. He closed his eyes.

Behind them was a blackness so complete, so opaque, that he disregarded all blackness he'd ever seen before it. This was it. The abyss. And he was about to jump right over the edge, for his brother. He opened them again.

He stared at Azazel, concentrating more of his power – which now felt completely, scarily natural and organic as it came from within him – on the demon, as he brought his hand into a fist. He saw Azazel's demonic soul, inside its body, now plagued by spasms and vigorous shaking, and realised that it was experiencing its death throes. _Good_, some dark part of his brain thought; he wondered idly if that dark part was as small as it used to be, or if, like a tumour, it was growing rapidly and uncontrollably.

With one final push with his powers, he felt something break. Azazel's soul shattered, emitting a white light before completely disappearing. There was no great fanfare, as he imagined there might be when the hunt that had spanned two generations and cost at least two lives just in his own family, came to an abrupt end. The anti-climax almost detracted from the victory. Almost.

Azazel's meat-suit flopped to the floor, dead. Sam had killed him. He'd killed the yellow-eyed demon. It was over. . . Well, so to speak. Deep down, Sam knew it would never be over. Especially now he'd been permanently changed.

He looked to Dean; found that his eyes were wide and alarmed, instead of pleased and proud.  
"Sam . . . Your – your eyes," He explained quietly.  
"They went yellow again?" Sam asked – he wasn't happy about it, but he was curious all the same.  
"They still are," Dean breathed. Though he was recovering from Azazel's torture, he still looked completely shocked and horrified at Sam's new appearance. Indeed, Sam felt sick himself, as he pressed a hand to his face. It was as if he expected to feel some form of change – but of course, he felt nothing. He wondered if it was his imagination that was causing everything he saw to have a yellow tint to it.

He couldn't blame his brother for being scared, or sad. He couldn't even deal with this himself. Not now, anyway.

It was then that he noticed that the hall was completely silent. He turned to face the crowd, breathing quickly, terrified of what would happen next. But nothing did.

In that moment, he felt out of control. He felt unsure, but all-powerful: a feeling he consciously knew was awful and wrong for any one person to experience. He knew he was changing; he'd just killed the demon, and his eyes were reflecting the dead creature's deceased soul.

He took a step down from the platform they were on, and was immediately met with deafeningly loud cheering. He looked all around, and saw that every creature in the room was elated – sinisterly so – at what had just happened.

Then it occurred to him: Azazel had said that he was giving up his power; he'd _wanted _Sam to kill him. It was all about the line of succession: Sam was in charge now. These demons were looking at him with something as close to love as they could manage; a twisted form of adoration and loyalty, to the end and destruction of the Earth, and possibly beyond.

_All hail the King. _

It was almost too late when he realised one figure had broken from the crowd, brandishing a rusted knife, heading straight for him. He looked up, perplexed, as his adrenaline made him able to jump out of the way just in time. He desperately tried to catch a glimpse of who – or what – was attacking him, but fell short in the most part.

It certainly wasn't a demon. Sam recognised it as a tortured soul, with skin flayed off its arms, and ragged clothing that was covered in a mix of blood, sweat, and other filth. Its hair was lank, and facial hair obscured its face.

This man hadn't broken yet. He wasn't a demon. The youngest Winchester's blood ran cold when he confirmed that, no, this man was no demon: he was someone Sam knew; someone he'd avenged just moments ago.

He was John Winchester.

". . . Dad?" Sam asked tentatively, but his father was too busy making a lunge for him. "Dad! It's me!" He protested, holding up his hands.  
"You are _not _my son," He screamed, his voice ragged from disuse.  
"Please! It's me!" The crowd jeered and hooted, watching the would-be fight unfold. They didn't deem it their business to get involved in Sam's fights: after all, a good king can win any battle. And they all believed, after several millennia of hype, that Sam would be a good king.

John managed to get one blow to Sam's arm, leaving a shallow cut that Sam found didn't affect him at all – like the wound on his hand, it ceased to be painful, and he saw that it was already beginning to heal when he shot the smallest of glances at it, between dodging that attacks his father was raining down on him. Even in Hell, the man was a formidable fighter.

It made sense Sam would be able to carry on, unperturbed, even when injured. After all, he realised idly, he'd seen a demon get thrown from a building and walk away. Dean, however, didn't realise this – or didn't care – and was beginning to edge towards the fray, trying to find a way to help. "Sammy," He warned in a low voice, avidly watching the conflict for an opportunity to help – but there was none, especially in the state he was in, courtesy of Azazel.

"I can see it in your eyes! You're not human!" John roared.  
"Please! I can explain, Dad!" Sam begged his father. He wanted to be happy that his father was still human; hadn't been changed by this awful place yet, even after what, in Hell time, would be hundreds of years. But he couldn't celebrate that fact: not while his father was swinging a rusted blade, coated with many years' worth of blood, at him. This was the part of his father that told Dean to kill him if he couldn't save him. The part that forgot how to love him, even with his tainted blood.

Bobby once told him that family didn't end with blood. As he stumbled backwards up the steps he'd just come down from, while his demon subjects looked on noisily, he wished that his father had the same philosophy.

"Sam, look out!" He heard Dean cry, and it startled him so much that he looked around, just in time to see Dean leap up, and shove him out of the way.

Dean. Dean who had looked at him with horror only a moment ago; who had just seen his baby brother's eyes transform fully into those of the creature he hated more than any other. Dean was still the one to rush to his side, pushing him out of the way, as John Winchester's blade came down, slashing across where Sam's chest would have been. Slashing down on where Dean's chest now was.

The older Winchester choked, overbalancing. And falling. Sam caught him under his arms, sinking to the floor, as he watched Dean's skin bleed, in utter shock. He could see torn muscle and tattered skin; could even see the jagged shapes where the force and awkward angle of the blow had shattered some of Dean's ribs. He looked up at his father, who stood there, heaving with the force of his stunned breathing. He was gaping in horror at cutting down his first-born son, the one who had always obeyed his orders: the one that, now, had sacrificed himself for a brother whose humanity was long gone. He was realising that he didn't know Dean at all.

John dropped the blade, completely disgusted at himself. He allowed himself a second more of staring at his sons – both of them – and creating an image in his mind that would endure, and last him an eternity. Then he slipped back into the crowd, lost forever as far as those sons were concerned. As if resonating with the seismic shift in their now-shattered father-son relationships, the floor began to shake. It seemed strangely incidental for a while to the Winchester boys, both still caught up in the sadness and intensity of the moment they'd just shared with their late father.

Eventually, the brothers looked up, sensing a pervasive change in the atmosphere that simply couldn't be ignored. They silently realised that the smoke that flew overhead was clearing all of a sudden.  
"W-what's happening, Sammy?" Dean asked, looking up at his brother, trying to sit up and failing miserably with a flinch of pain. Sam was selfishly grateful – somewhere under the layers of fear that his brave face wasn't quite covering – that Dean had still called him _Sammy_. He'd sacrificed himself for him, like always; he was still his Sammy.

So, when the ceiling above them opened up to reveal the night sky above, and thousands of black tendrils of smoke flew vertically up into the air and on to Earth, he didn't care that the world might be ending. Even if it was, they could fix it. Him and Dean, together. They were still a team. They could still do it . . .

". . . Dean?" Dean's eyes lazily found Sam's; they were sluggish in their movement, and he was coughing up more blood. Sam realised that the cut on Dean's chest wasn't as shallow as the one on his own arm; he might also still be suffering complications from Azazel's torture. "Dean, we've gotta . . ." He began, but Dean's eyes were closed. He shook his brother for a moment, but received only a small groan of pain for his troubles. Dean didn't open his eyes.

Sam barely noticed when Ruby sidled up, one of the few demons left that weren't flying upwards, and into Earth's sky through the now gaping hole in the roof. The Hall was now empty of demons, leaving only tortured souls and half-demonic creatures to watch, groaning longingly, as their superiors flew off into a land they had called home so very many years ago.

He only noticed her presence when she quoted in a low voice, "And it is written . . . That the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell . . . As he breaks–" She recited, crouching down next to Sam, and putting a hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. "–so shall it break,"

Sam looked up at her in horror, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. And, tears were welling in his eyes. He glanced down at Dean, then back up at her again:  
"W-what does that mean? Righteous man? Who – who . . . Dad?" He asked uncertainly. But he realised that wasn't the most important issue right now; he shook off that line of questioning, and asking with an uneasy curiosity:  
"First seal? What does that mean?"

Ruby just smiled a mischievous smile: full of wonder and obvious loyalty to her new leader, it spread slowly across her face as Dean shuddered in Sam's arms, shaking and coughing and losing consciousness. She squeezed his shoulder, to his discomfort, before thankfully letting go and letting her gaze drift upwards; Sam followed it, and could see Earth's night sky, black but completely starless.

And then he knew. Whether it was the demons escaping, or being crowned king of Hell, or the fact that Dean was going to die that made him sure of it – he couldn't say. But it was obvious, plain as the sky above him or the brimstone beneath his feet.

The world was ending.

* * *

_My PM inbox is now open for prompts - I prefer one-shots these days, although I do occasionally get tempted to do multi-chapter fics (see also: _Journal_). Let me know if you have any prompts for me! Hope you enjoyed this :)_

_Got any artwork you'd like me to use for this story? It doesn't currently have any cover art, but I might make some in the future, or ake requests for what you think it should be like. _

_You can also find me on Tumblr at thatwasbeautiful-clarence for prompts and general Spn blogging. Cheers!_


End file.
